Barriers
by brent-dog
Summary: With Robin missing, Batman pushes himself to the edge as he searches for the Boy Wonder. Can Wonder Woman pull him back from the brink, or will she be caught in the crossfire as he tears Gotham apart? BMWW, DCAU
1. Little Boy Lost

Hi all. I've had a kindly response to my previous two one-shots, which has convinced me that what I write hopefully isn't complete crap. So hence this story, which is planned to be a longer, multi-chapter affair. It is set within the DCAU continuity, but diverges around the kidnapping of Robin and the flashback events shown in Return of the Joker.

Once again, many thanks to my Beta, Dinasis, for his help and encouragement.

Standard disclaimers apply, insofar as Batman and Wonder Woman are the property of Warner Bros and DC Comics. I claim no ownership of them, nor do I make any sort of profit from this story.

Reviews, good or bad, are welcomed and appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter One: Little Boy Lost**

Fast and low, the craft cuts in quickly across the horizon, little more than a black smudge against the darkness of the night sky. The pilot skims perilously close to the trees below, serried ranks of evergreens that pack themselves together tightly for mile after mile, a vast green vista stretching on into the distance beyond. The majestic sweep of the Pine Barrens dominates his viewpoint in all directions and he flies over the woodland for what feels like an age, undisturbed save for the occasional burst of wildfowl that erupts in a startled flap of wings from below.

To the casual observer it would seem beautiful and serene, ageless and pure, entirely free from the corruptive influence of the city lying just beyond the horizon. Yet he knows the truth is different. Nothing is ever truly free of darkness; even in nature there is corruption, even the pure can be befouled.

Gradually the greenery starts to thin and reveal a darker understory, stagnant pools of inky water that sap the goodness from the trees. White cedar, red maple, pitch pine and sour gum, rotted from the bottom upwards, turning the ground below them into a boggy carpet of fetid marshland. He can almost taste the stench of decaying vegetation that permeates Slaughter Swamp as it burps and hisses towards the horizon.

There are bones under the swamp, he knows. A few are recent, the product of turf wars in the city—his city—but most are old, picked clean of flesh by time and the infinite patience of bacteria. Centuries ago a battle was fought here for freedom and liberty, the crackle of musket shot and the roar of cannon fire colouring the air with clouds of cordite smoke. Some say this is what makes the land here so poisonous, what enabled it to give birth to a monster like Solomon Grundy, but he knows better. The swamp is simply a product of the vegetation that surrounds it, the inevitable decay that must take hold of everything. Grundy was not a product of war, of the bodies that litter this wasteland, but rather a different kind of evil, the kind that men do to one another every day for the most mundane and petty of reasons.

A dull glow of lights gutters hazily on the ebony skyline, signalling the approach of the city. The stink of the swamp gives way to cleaner air as the boggy turf drains into the waters of Gotham River, dotted here and there with heavy barges and cargo vessels. Buildings start to sprout along the length of the muddied banks, small and simple at first, the lights of their windows buzzing like fireflies in the back of a skull.

Gothic bridges straddle the river as vehicles zip back and forth across them, their headlights tracing lines of gold through the darkness. The gap of clean air between swamp and city is a narrow one, disappearing entirely as suburban residences give way to the rattle and clank of industry, the acrid tang of the refineries and processing plants that feed like parasites off the Blasdell oil fields and fat cargo ships from the docks.

Old industries fade, to be replaced by new forms of commerce and residence as the city proper is revealed, curled like a concrete fist around the island of Gotham. The buildings start to mushroom upwards, five stories, then ten, twenty, a hundred, surrounded now by streets that throng with people. The gaudy neon glow of Gotham Square leads on to the hustle and bustle of Grand Avenue, where the production houses and theatres paint their faces with glorious technicolour billboards. Robinson Park follows, a green coin stamped on the asphalt surface of the city. Years ago to walk in the park at night would have been a death sentence, an invitation for a bullet in the back or a knife in the gut, but now couples amble along happily, hand-in-hand, enjoying their evening together.

Not everything in Gotham is darkness, just as not everything outside it is pure.

But beyond the park, beyond the city centre, the streets twist and narrow, underdeveloped and neglected. The Bowery and Crime Alley, the East End and the Cauldron: these are areas infamous the world over for being laden with crime and poverty. For Batman, the light that is now shed on other parts of the city simply serves to highlight the darkness that still remains deep within it, festering at the core like an open wound.

He likes to think that he seldom makes errors in judgement, is rarely ever flat-out wrong. Yet he has known for some time that it has been a mistake to spend so much time away from Gotham these past few months. Thoughts and feelings for _he__r_ have distracted him from the Mission, perhaps disastrously so. How could he allow himself the foolish luxury of concentrating on League matters, when there is still so much work to be done in the city he claims as his own? Now it has reached the point where his enemies have become emboldened beyond all measure, culminating in the call taken from Alfred earlier this evening, a hint of worry resonating like a thunderclap in the Englishman's usually unruffled voice.

Tightening his grip on the throttle, Batman banks left across the harbour, angling back toward the bluff atop which Wayne manor stands impassively. The cliff rushes at him, the grey mass of it threatening to crush him to oblivion, until at the last moment it parts to reveal a secret entrance built over a natural fracture in the rock. The maw of the cave is little more than a narrow fissure, full of rearing stalactites and melting crags that threaten to rip his craft apart like kindling. He barrels nimbly through, ducking and weaving almost by instinct, to emerge in the black, inky vastness of the Batcave itself.

He touches the Batplane down with practiced hands, coming to rest on a dais of rock that separates the civilised rear of the cave from the primal darkness beyond. With a hiss of released pressure the cockpit opens and he breathes in a familiar, musky scent. Bat guano cut with a hint of engine exhaust.

He leaps nimbly downward, landing smoothly despite the knot of apprehension in his stomach. It has been slowly building all night, becoming something uncomfortable and solid, like an undigested meal. The noises that carry to him do little to alleviate the tension: animated voices deep in conversation, the distinctive purr of Dick's Ducati. It almost sounds as if the whole family is present.

He quickly realises this assumption is wrong when he rounds the corner. Not everyone is here tonight.

The blue screens of the Cray supercomputer cast a sickly electronic pall over the scene before him. Dick is inspecting his bike, readying it for patrol, whilst Barbara stocks her belt with quiet efficiency. There is an unaccustomed urgency to their tight, controlled movements, something which almost borders on anxiousness, perhaps panic. Alfred stands to the left of them, wringing his hands with worry, a sight that makes the hackles on the back of his neck start to rise when he realises who is absent.

Nightwing spots him first, looking up from his bike to see Batman silhouetted against the glowing computer screen. He nods to the others, signalling them to stop what they are doing, but makes no move to approach him. That is left to Alfred; they know it is the older man who is best at breaking bad news to him. Dick and Barbara hover together, seeking comfort from one another as Alfred walks slowly toward him. The knot in his stomach tightens and for once Batman starts to feel queasy. He wants to throw up, to run away to somewhere where he cannot hear the news Alfred has for him.

But he fights the feeling and remains in control, somehow managing to stand stock still as Alfred gently places his hand upon his shoulder, eyes full of worry and sympathy.

"It's Master Timothy, sir. He hasn't come back from patrol."


	2. Frozen Desire

**Chapter Two: Frozen Desire**

As someone who prided himself on his ability to keep his many opponents second guessing, it struck Wonder Woman as somewhat ironic that Batman could in so many ways be entirely predictable.

Take the events of the past week, for example. They had kissed once again, as she and Batman sometimes did when the situation before them seemed impossibly bleak and hopeless. This time they had been on the arctic planet of Noveria, on yet another intergalactic mission of peace gone terribly wrong.

As mediators, the League had inevitably been caught in the crossfire when fighting broke out between the two warring alien factions. She and Batman had been separated from the others, chased by a vastly superior force for many miles across the frozen alien landscape. Finally they were run to ground, too proud and exhausted to flee any longer, like a pair of stags hunted by a pack of starveling dogs.

She remembered how Batman looked, staring down into the valley beneath them, the wind whipping the white cape of his arctic Batsuit into a fury, a storm of snowflakes fluttering around him. Magnificent, as always. Even then, near the limits of his endurance, he stood ramrod straight, every muscle alert, eyeing their approaching enemy for any signs of weakness.

It was the snowstorm that had grounded Diana, left them both so vulnerable to their pursuers. The flakes were falling thick now, forming fat white pillows amongst the crags on which they stood. She walked towards Batman, the softly sliding snow crunching under each footfall, and placed her hand on his shoulder. The armour of his suit was freezing to the touch, so cold it almost burned her, and she wondered - not for the first time - how he was able to cope in such conditions. Even with her magical immunity she still felt the biting chill of this planet cutting through to her bones.

"How many of them are there?" she asked him.

"Around a dozen or so." Batman shrugged. "A vanguard for the main force."

Green Lantern had described the Eruzei as the "biggest, baddest monsters on a planet full of big, bad monsters" in his briefing, but Diana thought them comical at first. With their four legs and saddle-shaped heads, they seemed ungainly and ill-suited to combat. But it did not take much fighting to discover that the quadrupedal aliens were quicker than they looked, even with their awkward gait. Possessed of prodigious strength and endurance, covered in chitinous armour and armed with powerful technology, the Eruzei were incredibly hard to stop.

Twelve of them would be formidable opposition, but it was not beyond them to overcome such odds. She squeezed Bruce's shoulder in gentle encouragement. He nodded once, stoic as ever, then melted into the snowstorm, his arctic suit affording him the perfect cover.

Wonder Woman remained on the lip of the hill, waiting. It was difficult to make out anything amongst the swirl of flakes. She strained her eyes, moving her head this way and that as she searched. Diana stood for an indeterminate amount of time, perhaps thirty seconds, perhaps five minutes, until at last she saw a series of dark, hulking shapes pressing against the cotton curtain of snow.

The first couple of Eruzei quickly spotted her and raised their bulbous plasma cannons to fire. She deflected the blasts with her vambraces, smashing the superheated bolts back towards the aliens. The energy from the plasma seared her skin painfully but she ignored the sensation, closing quickly on the two Eruzei, who had ducked out the way of the returning blasts. Diana kicked one of the creatures viciously in the face, knocking it unconscious, and backhanded the other into the cliff wall as it tried to jump her from behind.

The main body of the scouting party was around her now, pressing her hard from all sides. Close in like this they came at her with melee weapons: sharp-edged blades and curved axes for hacking and stabbing, spiked clubs and iron shod maces for shattering bone. With a clang of her bracers she blocked the thrust of a sword, then the slash of an axe, returning with a punch and a kick that knocked her enemies out of the fight. Grabbing another alien by the throat, she threw it bodily over her shoulder, all four legs flailing for purchase in the air as it smashed into a bunched knot of Eruzei.

More of the creatures were upon her and Wonder Woman was struck with a glancing blow, a lucky hit that caught her across the temple. Her vision swam, white stars mixing with the white flakes, bleaching out all colour. There was a roaring in her ears, like the tide beating on the shore, and Diana's knees buckled beneath her. She planted herself loosely in the snow and lolled backwards, limp, as the huge figure of her opponent moved into her vision.

The Eruzei strode forward implacably. Each leg was like a piston, dense bands of bone corded with layers of muscle and overlapping armour, hinged across a set of knees padded thickly with cartilage, cushioning each heavy stride the creature took. She looked blearily upwards, across the broad, powerful chest and the grey-brown chitin plate armour, to two pairs of alien eyes, glittering like black coins set wide on a hammerhead face. The creature tipped its head back to regard her pitilessly and raised the axe it held, readying to strike her a death blow…

Something whipped through the air, landing with a solid thunk in the hard alien metal of the axe. It beeped once then exploded, flinging the Eruzei backward in a burst of heat and pressure. The remaining aliens roared in surprise and turned to face the new threat. Before they could respond Batman was amongst them, unleashing a precise ballet of strike after strike. All but invisible in the snow, he whirled left and right, then back-flipped over one of the aliens, flinging out a pair of Batarangs as he landed. Two more Eruzei fell, bodies twitching with the crackle and burn of electricity.

There were only two of the big aliens left standing now. One of them bellowed and charged at Bruce, who launched himself forward with both feet. He took the creature high in the throat, the one area on them that was unarmoured. The Eruzei folded to the ground, front legs collapsing inwards as it slid face-first along the rocky precipice, a ploughed furrow of snow trailing in its wake.

Batman landed agilely and turned quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

Diana's senses snapped into focus as the last Eruzei came in unseen, to the blind side of Batman. She let out a shout of warning as the big alien swung a club that caught Bruce full in the chest. The sickening crack of bone echoed in her ears as Batman was flung high into the air, landing in a crumpled heap just a few feet away from her.

With a roar of anguish Wonder Woman flew toward the creature, her fists extended. She smashed into the Eruzei, cracking the chitinous armour in her fury, before carrying it twenty feet backwards, both of them crashing heavily into the rocky surface of the cliff face. The big alien went limp in her arms and she tossed it away like so much rubbish, to land in the snow with a wet thud. Before the movement was even complete she was running to Bruce, her feet barely touching the snowy ground beneath in her haste.

He was trying to move as she neared him, the damned stubborn fool. Typical of the man, that he would ignore the horrendous blow he had just taken. But at least he was still alive, and she silently thanked Hera as she knelt down beside him.

"Don't try to move, Bruce," Diana said, trying to keep her tone light. She pressed down gently on his chest, just enough to stop him from moving, and shifted her posture slightly, sitting down in the snow and extending her legs under Batman's head. He said nothing, merely regarded her impassively beneath the lenses of his cowl, presumably happy to sit with his head on her lap like this.

"Did you…did you kill it?" he eventually asked. His voice sounded almost accusing; she knew how much Bruce abhorred killing.

Diana glanced over at the Eruzei that had hit Bruce, saw the steady rise and fall of its armoured chest. "No. Remember what Green Lantern said? They're hard to kill. You could take off half its head and it would still be able to come at you."

Batman grunted in assent and she bowed her head toward his own. They lapsed into silence for a few moments, his head cradled softly in her lap, her dark hair framing his face.

"I waited too long," he whispered softly, chastising himself. She knew he was referring to how she had been hit.

"No, Bruce. There was nothing you could have done. It was a lucky blow, that was all."

"That alien could have killed you. I should have got to you quicker." This time his voice was definitely accusing, but the anger was self-directed.

"And the last one could have killed _you_!" Diana did nothing to disguise the annoyance behind her tone. "Don't forget, I'm more or less invulnerable, Bruce. And I heal quickly, unlike you!" Her anger dissipated as swiftly as it came and she dropped her hands to her sides. "I thought…I thought you were dead."

Bruce shifted uncomfortably beneath her. Even under his cowl she could see the grimace of pain that crossed his features as he moved. The blow from the Eruzei had at the very least broken several of his ribs, possibly his arm to boot.

"It'll take more than that to kill me, Princess," he chuckled darkly. "But then, the main force will be here any moment now, so we might not have long to wait."

Diana tenderly cupped his face with her hands. "Bruce…"

Slowly, ever so slowly, Bruce moved his right hand up to his face, peeling back his cowl. "I know, Princess." Their eyes locked together, blue against blue. "I know."

They had kissed then, deeply and passionately, sitting together in the cold snow, waiting for the Eruzei to come and finish them off. Then they had risen to their feet, injured and bone-weary, as a hundred of the aliens, armed and armoured to the teeth, charged at them over the lip of the frozen basin.

But rather than face certain death they had survived: a many wheeled, lumbering ground transport had suddenly arrived to the rear of the Eruzei, to disgorge first Kal and Green Lantern, then Flash and J'onn. Together with Bruce and Diana they had taken on the alien host and won, sending the big creatures fleeing back into the icy interior of the planet. With their mission of peace a failure, they did not linger long on Noveria and headed back to Earth that same day.

And then, when they had returned to Earth, Batman had acted as she knew he would: by ignoring her utterly. It was a dance they had danced many times before, ever since their first clinch in that tired old café in Gotham, all those years ago during the Thanagarian invasion. But even Batman had surpassed himself this time. Returning to Gotham almost straight away upon his return, Bruce had immediately cut off all communication with the rest of the League, even going to the extraordinary lengths of blocking all teleporter coverage over the city.

That was a week ago and there had been precious little information coming out of Gotham since then. She knew Kal was worried, to the extent that he had gone to Wayne Manor to try and talk to Bruce, but he'd returned empty-handed, unable to find anyone home. The absence of Alfred was particularly troubling to the founders; there was no reason that any of them could think of for the old retainer to be absent from the ancestral Wayne Manor.

All of the founders had tried pressing Black Canary, Zatanna, and even the Question for information, but the strange code of honour that existed between Gotham's superheroes meant they remained tight-lipped in the face of their combined interrogation. Most of what they did hear was rumour and conjecture, gleamed from the press contacts that Kal had fostered at the Gotham Globe. Brutal whispers were slowly reaching them, like the fine spray of a bloody cough hacked up from the belly of the Gotham underworld, of a Batman more vicious and vengeful than ever. If the reports were to be believed, Bruce was literally tearing the city apart.

And all the while Diana had remained quiet, not daring to reveal that the reason for Batman's strange behaviour was because of their kiss on Noveria. Partly, this was because she did not want to be the source of gossip for the rest of the Watchtower; she knew full well that there were already plenty of "are they or aren't they, will they or won't they" discussions about her and Batman. But the other reason, the main one, was that she was angry at Bruce: angry at this ridiculous charade that they played with one another time and time again, at the constant denial of what existed between them, at his refusal to even talk to her about it.

Well, this time he had pushed her too far. Enough was enough. Diana was heading to Gotham, to get a straight answer out of Bruce whether he wanted to give her one or not.


	3. The Amber Palace

**Chapter Three: The Amber Palace**

Batman heard the nightclub long before he saw it, the heavy bass rumble of dance music rippling out across the rooftops around him. He moved smoothly from building to building, black cape fluttering behind him as he alternated as necessary between jumping and firing his grapple gun. Like most parts of Gotham's East End, the Bowery had not been planned; it had simply happened. Now it was a jumbled mess of buildings, some just a single storey, some five or six, with the occasional building climbing even higher, all built over narrow streets that fused together like the spokes on a melting bicycle wheel.

He swung past the lidless eye socket of a broken street lamp, the bulb shot out by street thugs, like all those around here had been. In any other district, in any other city, they would probably have been repaired by now, but not in Gotham, not in the East End. City officials rarely came here. Even the cops didn't venture into the Bowery if they could help it – or at least not the honest ones.

Ahead of him he saw the club sign, poking above the concrete lid of a nearby rooftop. Neon lettering glowed orange and yellow against the night skyline, proclaiming that this was the 'Amber Palace', a rather grand name for a former red-brick warehouse cheaply converted into a gaudy nightclub. The front of the building had been dressed up in garish hues – gold and apricot, mustard-yellow and salmon-pink – in a vain effort to detract from the dilapidated state of the brickwork, like make-up plastered across the face of an ageing hooker.

Batman settled into a crouch on a rooftop opposite the club. He intently watched the main entrance, a large steel door, shrunk and rusted at the edges, hanging on cheap hinges hastily sunk into the crumbling mortar of the building. Three heavyset bouncers stood outside, their black jackets framing them against the colourful walls. Just inside he could make out a pimply youth sitting in the ticket booth and a shrew-faced woman manning the coat room. Occasionally patrons would walk out, either alone, as couples, or in groups, their movements the exaggerated gait of the very drunk.

Going through the front would be risky. Batman could handle the bouncers easily enough, but he didn't want to hurt the two other employees. More than that, he didn't want to attract any attention that might scare off his quarry: Vincent "Vinnie" Howard, former henchman of the Joker and one of the few leads he still had a chance of catching.

Barely recovered from his brush with the Eruzei on Noveria, Bruce knew that he was running hot since Robin had been taken, exposing both himself and the Mission to unnecessary risk. Part of his success as Batman had always come in carefully weighing the odds and trying to tip them in his favour; planning and preparation were his weapons as much as fear and surprise. Yet this past week he had been guilty of descending on Gotham like a Fury, acting rashly and without forethought, fuelled by his anger and the sense of helplessness seething deep within him.

And what exactly had that accomplished? Next to nothing. There were still no leads, no clues, no hope of finding Tim.

Batman balled his hand into a fist, striking the black-clad gauntlet against the cold concrete roof as he silently berated himself. If anything, his careless actions had harmed the chances of finding his ward. He knew full well that many of the criminals in the city had simply gone to ground, driven even further into the shadows by the sustained brutality of his assault on the Gotham underworld. Whilst he and Barbara ran down every possible lead, it became increasingly difficult to find anyone worth talking to.

But fortunately, not every felon in Gotham possessed the good sense to hide from a vengeful Batman. Despite their illegal inclinations, wrong-doers could be creatures of habit just as much as upright citizens, incapable of changing their ways no matter what the threat posed to them.

Vinnie was one such example. Back on the Batcomputer, Batman had a file on him a mile long, including the details of his regular habits and routines. The former henchman possessed an unhealthy penchant for heavily inebriated young girls, something which the Amber Palace had in abundance. Recently released from Blackgate Prison, Vinnie could be found prowling the floor of the club most Friday and Saturday nights, an opportunist predator looking for his next victim.

Batman continued to study the club but suddenly found it hard to focus. He blinked and rubbed his eyes beneath his cowl, trying to clear out the layer of grime that seemed to have accrued there. This past week had been one long string of patrol after patrol, broken only by brief interludes when he would return to the cave to stock up on supplies or catch a few minutes sleep, possibly shower and eat if time would allow. This particular patrol was some sixty-four hours long. Whilst no means a record, it was enough to start taking a toll on his body.

He scanned the right-hand side of the club, dark save the dim glow of the neon sign, hung too far around the front of the building and struggling to shed light past the corner. There was a small door sunk into the flank of the brickwork, which he would have missed were it not for the brief splash of light that flared when a bouncer, leaning idly against the outside of the wall, decided to spark a cigarette.

It glowed in the near-darkness like a hot coal, bobbing once, then twice as the thug sucked greedily upon it. Batman was already on the move, aiming his grapple gun at the building next to the club. His hand jerked backwards with a fizz of pressurised air as the mechanism fired, the hook soon digging in to the rim of the roof with a quiet thud.

* * *

Six-foot-four, shaven headed and heavily tattooed, steroid bulked muscles corded with bulging veins, Dale Melody looked every inch the type of doorman you did not want to mess with.

A former mixed martial arts professional, Dale was lethally proficient in Muay Thai, Aikido and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. At the age of twenty eight he had fought time and again on the streets of Gotham, whether it be against some drunken idiot acting out of hand, a street thug trying to carve out a name for himself, or more dangerous opponents who knew what they were doing. Confident and cocksure in his abilities, Dale had yet to meet anyone capable of putting him down.

Against Batman, he didn't stand a chance.

The bouncer had just finished his cigarette, inhaling the last gulp of nicotine deep into his lungs, when he saw a shadow flicker across the edge of his vision. There was a dull thud behind him, the sound of heavy boots landing on asphalt, and he turned to face the noise, his jaw dropping at the sight before him: a twin-horned silhouette, wreathed in a dark cape that billowed backwards like the remnants of a nightmare.

_Jesus Christ!_ Dale thought, as the cigarette fell from his lips, tumbling end over end, to extinguish with a faint hiss in a shallow puddle gathered against the nightclub wall. _It's the freaking Bat!_

For all his faults, one thing Dale was not was a coward, so after recovering from his initial shock he assumed a classic Muay Thai position, arms up in defence, hips and hands square to his opponent. Batman closed the distance rapidly, aiming a fast jab towards his head, but Dale blocked the move, countering with a kick towards the thigh, trying to reduce the mobility of his opponent. The Dark Knight responded with his own counter, deflecting the kick with the outside of his knee, forcing Dale's foot to crack painfully against the solid brick wall of the Amber Palace.

The bouncer tried to react, swinging his right fist towards Batman's head, but he found only fresh air. His opponent had somehow ducked and whirled around him in the narrow confines of the alley, and Dale barely had time to wonder how the hell Batman had managed such a move before an armoured fist cracked into his face, jackhammer hard, shattering his cheekbone and sending him spiralling into oblivion.

* * *

Batman gingerly stepped over the prone body of the unconscious bouncer then pushed open the side door. A set of carpeted stairs, thick with mould, led upwards. He took them two at a time, quickly reaching another door at the top, which he creaked open a crack.

It led to two more grimy corridors, one pointing straight forward, the other to the right. Pushing his way through, Batman stood carefully for a second, senses alert, trying to gauge which way he should turn. In truth, it was difficult to tell; the thump of the bass was so deep now that it was moving the hairs on his arms, as though someone were gently blowing on them. But he fancied that the music seemed louder to his right, so he strode quietly ahead, his booted footfalls soft on the threadbare carpet.

There was yet another door, which he pressed open to reveal a further hallway, a series of dimly-lit rooms leading off from either side. The back-office area of the club, no doubt. He closed the door behind him and as he did so the thumping sound of the music dimmed noticeably, to the extent that he could now hear a couple of voices raised in conversation further down the corridor.

"Hey, Dale, is that you?" one of the voices shouted, presumably having heard the change in volume as the door opened and closed. "Get your ass in here, we got business to attend to!"

Batman approached silently, listening in on the dialogue.

"Got these through my Albanian contacts." It was the first voice again, deep and mellow, speaking with a hint of pride. "Reckon we can net two, two and half k per bag."

"Ah'm not sure it's such a good idea, Duke," said the other man, his pitch higher and whinier than the first, lightly accented with a southern twang. "We got a good thing going on here, turning a nice legit profit. Why would we want to risk it?"

"This is the Bowery," replied Duke, his tone smug. "There's no law down here. Where's the risk?"

"You're forgetting the Bat. He's been tearing the city apart—ain't no hiding place from him."

"Listen to yourself, Skeet! For Christ's sake, grow some balls, will you? You ask me, the Bat's been doing us a favour. It took me years to build up enough credit with the likes of Thorne and Penguin to start up my own door firm, to muscle in on the occasional bit of drug dealing here and there. It constantly felt like I was begging for scraps at their goddam table. Now, though, the good old Dark Knight of Gotham has got them running scared, left a vacuum for people tough enough and hungry enough to exploit it. People like me."

With dramatic timing, Batman rounded the corner of the doorframe just as Duke finished his monologue. He saw two men sitting on opposite sides of an old oak desk. One of the men, heavyset, bald and bull-necked – much like the bouncer he had dealt with downstairs – sat with his back to Batman and the door. The other faced toward the door, a thin and weaselly man, with a ridiculous quiff that made him look like a starved, buck-toothed Elvis. The desk between them heaved with paper, haphazard towers of promotional flyers and old invoices that looked as though they were ready to topple over, surrounding a series of bulging packets filled with little blue pills.

"No need to thank me, Duke." Batman's voice was low and harsh, like gravel being scraped over concrete.

"What the fu—" Duke turned round in his chair, craning his neck to try and see who was behind him. He didn't even have time to finish the expletive before Batman was upon him, striking a solid blow to the temple and knocking him out cold.

"Jesus Christ Jesus Christ Jesus Christ Jesus Christ—oh God oh God!" Weasel-face was on the verge of hyperventilating, his eyes widening into saucers as he took in the sight of Batman looming above him. He scrabbled frantically about himself, as though he were trying to dig his way out of his current predicament. Batman realised he had seen him before; it was hard to forget a face that ugly. Skeet Harmen, an entrepreneur in the most illegal sense of the word, occasional business associate of the Penguin, a loser all ends up.

"Hello, Skeet."

The use of his name seemed to bring Skeet back to himself and he stopped his nervous movements, instead spreading his hands beseechingly. "Batman, ah swear, this ain't nothin' to do with me! Ah own this place legit, fair and square, but those guys was putting pressure on me to sell their merchandise through the door network. Ah told them no but they weren't listening, wouldn't take—"

"Your viewing gallery," he growled, cutting the babbling Skeet off. "Where is it?"

The club owner looked momentarily taken aback. "Viewing gallery? What do you think this place is? The Iceberg Lounge or something?"

With one lengthy step the Dark Knight was towering over Skeet and hauling him up by his collar. He dragged the smaller man toward him across the surface of the desk, stacks of paper scattering to the floor in his wake. Skeet swallowed nervously as he found himself face to face with the impassive lenses of Batman's cowl, his feet dangling a good few inches off the ground. "Don't get smart with me, Skeet. There's enough amphetamines in this room to put you away for a long, long time."

"Didn't mean no offence by it, Batman," said Skeet, Adam's apple bobbing up and down his thin neck. "We just ain't got anything as fancy as a viewing gallery is all."

Bruce was starting to lose his patience and he tightened his grip, shaking the erstwhile entrepreneur bodily. "You must have somewhere that you can view your patrons from."

"S-s-sure," Skeet replied, his words sticking in his chest as he was juddered about. "Th-there's the whole s-s-s-second floor." Batman stopped rattling the smaller man and his voice returned to normal. "Stairs are straight on and to the left."

"Good." Batman growled, letting the club owner go. Skeet hit the floor with a bony thud and immediately started trying to call away from him. "Now get out of here, before I decide to call the cops on you."

"You got no worries on that count, Batman. Yessir, don't you worry." Skeet pushed himself upward from the floor, almost tripping over again in his haste to get away. "Ah'm getting me back to Alabama and the simple life." With that, he took off at a breakneck pace down the corridor, back toward the side exit and sanctuary.

From behind, Batman heard Duke groan softly. The wannabe gangster was starting to recover from the earlier blow, so he struck him again, hard, just behind the ear. The thug slumped back down over the desk, his shaven head coming to rest against the pile of tightly-wrapped amphetamines.

Batman picked up one of the packets and held it up to the sallow light of the room's single light bulb, inspecting it. Standard press pills, coloured a deep turquoise, with pictures of a smiling dolphin marked into them. He hadn't seen the type before, but he knew that the Albanians Duke had been referring to were working out of Blüdhaven, so he filed a mental note to remind Dick to look into their activities.

There were ten packets in all, with about five hundred pills per pack, selling at a street value of five to ten dollars a pill. That meant this little cache was worth anywhere from twenty-five to fifty thousand dollars, enough to earn Duke here a good stretch of time. Batman handcuffed the slumbering thug to the desk then radioed the cops, informing them in brusque tones about the haul, before setting off in the direction that Skeet had previously indicated. He knew that the average wait time for a police response in the Bowery was forty-two minutes, so he would have plenty of time to find Vinnie before a GCPD cruiser showed up.

Batman followed the corridor around to the left then climbed the stairs quickly, finding himself face to face with a metal door that seemed to jump in time to the booming rhythm of the bass music. Alternating colours of orange and amber light pulsed around the entrance, filtering through the cracks of the steel frame like blood through a bandage. He grasped the thrumming handle and opened the door, striding out onto the floor beyond.

If the dance music had been loud before it was positively deafening now. Bruce winced slightly before turning up the filtering system on his cowl, drowning out some of the noise so he could concentrate properly as he gazed down at the heaving dance floor below.

Even with the garish strobe lighting and the sweaty press of bodies he spotted Vinnie fairly easily, his swollen muscles and blonde flat-top helping him to stand out from the crowd. He arm was around the waist of some young girl, a slight blond thing probably no more than eighteen years old. Batman used the magnification on his cowl to zoom in, his lenses narrowing in anger as he saw Vinnie drop a tablet of something into the girl's drink. The thug smirked a wide, lecherous grin as the girl greedily downed whatever beverage it was he had bought her, unaware of the mickey slipped inside.

Bruce wanted to intervene straight away, to swoop down on to the dance floor and take Vinnie apart, consequences be damned, but he swiftly suppressed the up-swell of rage; Batman didn't give in to anger or other such base emotions. Besides, it wouldn't be long before the drug began to take effect, and Vinnie would want to usher the girl out of the club well before that happened.

Sure enough, no more than a couple minutes later, the thug began to lead the girl towards the exit, her steps increasingly woozy and uncoordinated. Bruce turned away from the scene, rapidly retracing his steps back toward the side door, stepping over the still-unconscious bouncer as the cold air of the alley kissed his face.

Immediately he fired his grapple gun at the roof of the building opposite, pulling himself quickly through the air as Vinnie emerged through the main doors, girl in tow. By now she could hardly walk and the thug was effectively dragging her along as she sagged in his arms. The bouncers outside didn't even bat an eyelid at the sight; obviously this was a scene they had seen played out time and time again. Once the situation with Tim had been resolved he would have a little 'talk' with them about their civic duties toward their fellow citizens.

Batman tailed Vinnie from the rooftops for a couple of blocks, keeping track with his slow progress until they were well out of sight of the club. Eventually, he decided he could wait no longer; Vinnie's hands were becoming ever more eager as he manhandled the girl down the street. He lined the thug up and swooped down, catching him directly between the shoulder blades with both feet. Vinnie cartwheeled to the pavement, smashing his face on the hard grey concrete. The girl fell limply to his side, her blond hair spilling out around her like a yellow puddle.

Vinnie tried to raise himself to his feet, blood streaming from his shattered nose, so Batman booted him in the ribs then tossed him against a nearby building. The thug hit the wall hard, the air rushing from his lungs. Winded, Vinnie greedily sucked down a breath, moaning quietly as he did so.

"Bat-freak," he said, once he had finally recovered himself. "Glad to see your touch is as gentle as ever."

"And I'm glad to see you're still as much of a dirty little pervert, Vinnie."

The former henchman hawked and spat, thumbing toward the prone figure of the girl as he did so. "What, her? She was game for it, they always are."

Quick as a flash Batman had Vinnie on his feet, twisting his arm behind his back and planting his broken face painfully into the side of the building.

"So if I took a sample of her blood for a full tox screen I wouldn't find traces of Rohypnol in there?" he hissed.

"C'mon now, Batman," said Vinnie, his voice muffled, full of red-brick. "What's a few roofies between friends?"

Batman pushed Vinnie's arm higher and the henchman let out a grunt of pain.

"Where's the Joker, Vinnie?"

"So that's what this is all about?" the thug replied with surprise through gritted teeth. "I haven't run with the Joker for years… last time I did a job for him his grand plan was to have us judge a comedy contest. For free! Trust me, that guy was too many different types of crazy for the lousy money he had on offer. What makes you think I'd know anything about where he is?"

"Not good enough." Batman kept pushing upward, felt the bones in Vinnie's arm start to creak under the strain.

"Jesus Christ, you're breaking my arm!"

"Trust me, you don't tell me what I want to know and I won't even think twice about it," he threatened. "Then I'll shove your roofies down your throat and leave you here for the night, free for any sicko wandering by to do what he wants with you."

"Ok, ok, enough already!" Vinnie pleaded, the bravado driven out of him. "I heard something the other day…probably nothing…but those jerks that replaced me and the boys, they were going to be meeting at the Stacked Deck for some little powwow. You might find out something there."

When Vinnie had been working for the Joker he did so with two other henchmen, a couple of toughs called Knuckles and Kowalski. Eventually, after his plans had been thwarted over and over again by Batman, the Clown Prince of Crime had decided to recruit a different trio: Mo, Lar and Cur. It was they whom Vinnie was undoubtedly referring to, and it was the most promising lead he'd yet to receive on Joker's whereabouts.

He relaxed his grip on Vinnie, allowing the thug to turn around and slump down the wall. Batman ignored him, instead turning his attention to the girl, who was still lying comatose on the pavement. He frisked her quickly, finding a driver's licence tucked away inside her purse. Hannah Simpson, just seventeen years old, originally from Ohio.

Her photo was elfin and beautiful, blue eyes set above high cheek bones, her face edged with straight, golden hair. He wondered what it was that had caused her to wind up in the oft-unforgiving surrounds of Gotham, getting drunk in seedy dives like the Amber Palace, where she was easy prey for men such as Vinnie. With a sudden burst of anger he strode back over to the recovering thug, kicking him viciously into unconsciousness, before tying his hands behind him and radioing his location to the cops.

Batman continued searching through Hannah's wallet, hoping to turn up something that would show him where she lived. At last he found a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it, a street just a few blocks distance from here. He scooped the girl up carefully, taking care not to alarm her. She felt so fragile, delicate as spun sugar, and she stirred slightly in his arms, nuzzling her face into the protective shelter of his chest.

He would get to the Stacked Deck soon enough. But first, it was time to get this one home.


	4. Collateral Damage

**Chapter Four: Collateral Damage**

Thanks to Bruce's actions, Gotham was off-limits with teleporter coverage disabled, so Diana found herself asking for the Metro Tower rather than the Batcave when she stepped onto the transport panel in the Watchtower.

Mr. Terrific gave her a brief thumbs up before tracing his fingers over the touchscreen controls. Diana briefly had time to wonder if Michael Holt had figured out why she was going to the Tower – he was, after all, one of the smartest people alive, probably only behind Luthor in terms of intellect – before she was stretched into a glowing tunnel of white light.

To be ripped apart at the atomic level and then stitched back together, molecule by molecule, thousands of miles away was something Diana would probably never get used to. The first time she experienced teleportation she had been sick to her stomach afterward, retching weakly into a bowl which Flash helpfully zipped away to gather for her. Nowadays she was just left with a mild queasiness and a prickling sensation behind her eyes, though at least both would quickly pass.

Diana rematerialised in the teleporter room of the Metro Tower mere moments later. She waited a second or so for the mild sickliness to fade, rubbing her eyes vigorously to get rid of the scratching sensation behind them, then had a cursory look about herself. Aztek was the only other person in the room, sitting behind a series of screens showing the feeds from various security cameras around the building. Bruce, unwilling to trust private security no matter how well vetted, had insisted that a Leaguer always watch the monitor bank at all times.

How very…_Batman_ of him, Diana thought darkly, as she raised a hand in greeting to Aztek.

The Q Man looked bored, despondently resting his chin on the palm of his hands, his face downcast. Watching monitors was not what the wearer of the Mask of Warriors – the magical helmet created by Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent and the Aztec God of Light himself – had presumably signed up for. Even the golden spikes of his crest seemed to have lost some of their lustre as he stared blankly at the multiple screens, but his eyes perked up when he noticed Diana waving at him.

"Good evening, Wonder Woman," he said. "How goes?"

"I'm well. Thank you, Aztek. And yourself?"

"I'd be better if I weren't on security duty!" Aztek replied, sweeping a hand towards the monitor bank in front of him. "But that'll teach me to use a shift as collateral when playing poker with Vigilante. I swear that guy cheats, but I haven't been able to prove it yet."

Diana had little experience of poker, in her opinion one of the more inane pursuits of Man's World, but she knew that the male founders had played together once, after Wally badgered them into organising what he termed a "boys' night in". Apparently, the event did not go overly well. J'onn, not quite familiar with the etiquette of poker, had read the others' minds and roundly beat everyone save Batman. Bruce, being in possession of the ultimate poker face and having a mind so closed and guarded that even J'onn could not read it, then proceeded to win handily, much to Wally and everyone else's annoyance.

She remembered the next day, how Bruce had walked so smugly into the founders meeting whilst whistling – actually whistling! It seemed that even Batman was not immune to the competitive satisfaction that came from winning a sporting event against his peers. He had been unusually extrovert with her, even going so far as to tease Diana in front of the others, which Wally afterward described as the closest thing he'd ever seen to Batman flirting in public.

She smiled briefly at the memory, then immediately reprimanded herself for doing so. Was she so weak that even the thought of Bruce in a good moment could bring a smile to her face?

"The stupid jerk," she muttered under her breath, forgetting that one of the powers bestowed upon Aztek by the Mask of Warriors was super-hearing.

"Haha, wow!" laughed Aztek. "What's Vig gone and done to earn your ire?"

Diana flushed at the gaffe, her cheeks turning crimson as she tried to explain herself to Aztek. "No, sorry! I wasn't referring to Vigilante. …I was just thinking out loud about someone else. And before you ask, it's nothing important, I promise."

"Oh-kaaayy…" Aztek raised a quizzical eyebrow as he regarded her. Clearly he wasn't overly convinced by her explanation, but when Wonder Woman bit her lip and didn't say anything further, he nodded briefly to her before returning his attention to the monitors. One of the perks of being a Founder of the League was that other members tended not to question your actions, no matter how odd or outrageous. Normally Diana found this a tad sycophantic and annoying, but for once she was actually glad of it. With an embarrassed wave to Aztek she quickly left the room and made her way toward the building exit.

In no time at all Diana was airborne, angling out over the coastline before turning northward for Gotham. The sun hung fat and low in the sky and the air had a distinctly chilly bite to it; sure signs that summer was giving way to autumn. She turned her head, looking behind her toward Metropolis, making out the bronze, steel and glass edifice of the Metro Tower, shining like molten gold in the evening sunlight. It amazed her sometimes, how the city itself reminded her of Kal, whilst Gotham reminded her of Bruce; one a city full of glass and light, with a wholesome hero to match; the other a place of gothic buildings and shadows, with a Dark Knight for a protector.

It took Diana perhaps an hour or so to make her way to Gotham from Metropolis. At first the coastline below was churned predominantly by the delicate white trails of yachts and other pleasure boats, with only the occasional slug-like wake of a cargo ship frothing the surface. But as she headed further north the trend reversed, the larger ships becoming more and more common, the smaller ones less so, till all she noticed were fat tankers and huge transporters, ploughing their way to the refineries and factories that thrived around Gotham.

Diana elected to stay out above the harbour rather than fly over the city itself, cutting past the Statue of Justice in the process. She hovered there for a moment, regarding the effigy that stood sentinel over Gotham, her eyes blindfolded, sword in one hand, scales of judgement in the other. Whereas the Statue of Liberty in New York was a welcoming mother, a symbol of hope to the outcasts and downtrodden of the world, Gotham's equivalent was an altogether grimmer guardian, a stern warning to the immigrants who flocked here that yes, this was a place of opportunity, but also one of justice, with a rule of law that had to be obeyed.

Ahead in the distance she could make out the familiar silhouette of Wayne Manor, standing stark against the darkening horizon. A couple of minutes later and she was touching down in the grounds, her boots clicking on the driveway, framed by the perfectly manicured lawns and sculpted shrubbery that she remembered from her time spent here during the Thanagarian invasion.

With a slight sense of trepidation, Diana made her way to the grand double doors of the manor, questions turning over in her mind. Would Bruce be there? How would he react to her presence? What would she even begin to say to him? Their various kisses had always gone unmentioned before, a taboo subject that neither of them brought up. Now she was about to change the whole dynamic between them.

Her hand paused over the heavy brass knocker set below the stylized Wayne 'W'. Did she really want to do this? Diana thought hard for a moment and decided that she did. She was Amazon. She did not back down, not even from Bruce.

It was time for answers.

Diana knocked once, the sound grating loudly in her ears, then waited for what felt like an age. She was just about to knock again when her enhanced hearing picked up the echo of dress shoes on tile. It grew louder until the door was pulled open, presenting her with the familiar features of Alfred Pennyworth.

"Miss Diana!" If she had expected a welcoming smile from the old butler, she was sorely disappointed. For just the briefest moment, a mere split second, Alfred's face seemed to register not only surprise but also worry at her presence. Although the emotion was quickly masked, Diana had spent enough time reading the occasional flicker of a reaction from Bruce to know full well what she had seen.

It was most unlike Alfred to be in any way unwelcoming, and if his masked emotions made her suspicious that something was badly amiss at Wayne Manor, her fears were confirmed when the butler momentarily paused before speaking again. "You…you shouldn't be here, Miss."

This was not the man she was used to, the kindly old gentleman who was always so forthcoming with her. Even if the master of the house was sometimes downright rude to Diana, Alfred had always been impeccably mannered, more than making up for Bruce's shortcomings. Why, the last time she was here Alfred had been delighted to see her, even going so far as to cook her pancakes whilst she waited around for Batman. His reaction now could not have been more different.

The Englishman made as if to close the door in her face but Diana placed her palm against the heavy oak surface, forestalling the effort.

"Alfred, what is it?" she asked, unable to disguise the worry behind her voice. "What's wrong?""

The old butler regarded her levelly, his face inscrutable. Time stretched on, the seconds ticking slowly by. Just as Diana was about to lose the last of her patience and demand an answer, Alfred broke eye contact, looking down at his feet before letting out a long sigh. His shoulders sagged, folding inward toward his chest, and he suddenly looked every one of his advancing years. He seemed so sad that she felt like giving him a hug, but was sure that his English sensibilities would be mortally offended by such a gesture.

"I'm afraid I'm not allowed to grant anyone other than family members access to Wayne Manor," he finally said, once again looking her in the eye. "You'd need to ask Master Bruce himself for more information."

"And where is Bruce?"

"He has been out on patrol in Gotham with Batgirl, Miss."

Diana narrowed her eyes slightly, sensing the unsaid meaning behind the words. "For how long?"

"He hasn't been home for the past three nights," answered Alfred, his shoulders slumping into a sigh once again.

"Three nights!" she exclaimed. "Where in Gotham is he exactly?"

Alfred placed a white-gloved hand on his chin, considering things. "Were you to try to find him, I would not seek to stop you." Finally there was a sparkle showing behind the butler's eyes. "As for his exact whereabouts… I'm afraid I'm under orders not to divulge his location, whether to you, Superman or anyone else for that matter. As you know, Master Bruce has always been one to play his cards very close to his chest."

Once again she got the feeling that Alfred was trying to tell her something, but this time she couldn't quite figure out what it was. Diana knew full well that the Englishman was torn between his obligations to his surrogate son and the esteem in which he held her, so she decided not to press the issue.

"Thank you, Alfred," she said simply, placing her hand on his elbow in gratitude as she spoke.

The Englishman beamed at her and the action seemed to take years off him. Diana smiled wholeheartedly in return, gladdened by the sight, then took to the air to seek out Bruce.

She started by flying to places where she thought Batman might reasonably be, landing first on the roof of the GCPD building, by the familiar glass orb of the bat-signal; then perching herself atop the windswept Gothic spires that pierced the roof of the Old Town district; before finally lingering for a moment opposite the Gotham Natural History Museum, where she had first tried to reveal her feelings to Bruce, only to be shut down by the blank computer screen of his mind.

Having quickly exhausted what she considered the most likely possibilities, Diana took to crisscrossing the skies around Gotham, using the Sight of Athena to try and search out Bruce. As she did, she saw the city – truly saw it – for the first time. Whilst she had fought in Gotham on occasion, visited it often enough for various charity events, even lived here during the Thanagarian invasion, she had never truly been granted unfettered access to just wander the city. Bruce's dislike of meta-humans operating on his turf, not to mention his paranoia concerning his secret identity, meant that even when she was resident in Wayne Manor Diana had been forced to come and go in secret, like some refugee fleeing across borders, exiled from the heart of the city itself.

By nightfall, Gotham was coloured in shades of film noir, full of gritty buildings of grey concrete and dark steel, lengthy black shadows dripping between them, the muted white glow of artificial lights struggling to throw back the gloom. Diana was reminded of something Superman had once told her. "I'm not particularly fond of Gotham," he'd said, when she was new to the League and pressing him for more information about Batman's home city. "It's like someone built a nightmare out of metal and stone."

She could see why Kal would say that. While Metropolis was a gleaming show home, pristine and modern, Gotham was much more lived in, both glamorous and grimy at the same time. It had become an economic and cultural powerhouse not just by dint of the privileged few who constructed the stately mansions and redbrick townhouses of Old Town and Gotham Heights, but the many millions that swarmed to the vibrant chaos of its sprawling slums, smoke-belching factories and crowded sweatshops, aspiring to make a better life for themselves in the teeming city.

Diana flew onwards, across the various neighbourhoods of Gotham, travelling through several different districts and ethnic enclaves: the colourful neighbourhoods of Chinatown and Little Persia, filled with exotic smells and excitable foreign voices; the chic bourgeois sensibility of Gotham Village, where the achingly fashionable came to see and be seen; the hardship and poverty of the East End, so hard to reconcile with the wealth and grandeur of areas like the Palisades and Gotham Heights, which stood resplendent in their power and glory.

More than most cities, Diana mused, Gotham was a place of haves and have-nots. Perhaps it was this that contributed to the crime here, the vast disparity in wealth between rich and poor?

She continued onward, passing over Gotham City Stadium. The Knights were playing at home this evening and she heard the muffled roar of the crowd as they cheered on the home team. The green rectangle of the pitch, flanked by the gold wings of the stadium, served to emphasise the vast expanse of the dark urban jungle that surrounded it. She suddenly realised that it would be futile to search for Batman in such a crowded vastness, particularly when he did not want to be found.

Instead Diana thought back to what Alfred had told her earlier, how his face had crooked into a smile when he spoke. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was a hidden meaning behind the words. Whilst the Englishman was not in the habit of going directly against Bruce's explicit instructions, it would certainly not be the first time that he had used a clever wordplay to provide some clue as to his master's intentions.

"Master Bruce has always been one to play his cards very close to his chest."

She turned the words over in her mind, trying to divulge some clue in them as to the whereabouts of Batman. Diana tried to think of previous conversations with Bruce, places he had spoken of, cases solved, people met.

It came to her in a rush, the memory bursting like a balloon on the surface of her brain: she is sat in the Watchtower commissary, nursing an iced mocha, then Batman walks in, all dour and sullen and moody and oh so sexy with it, and decides to sit next to her. She feels like squealing with delight, but holds it in, then Flash zips up in a scarlet blur and breaks the moment – she could kill him! – to invite them both to a fancy dress party of all things! Mr. Predictable says he doesn't do fancy dress, so Wally asks him what about the time when he dressed up as Killer Croc to arrest the Joker at the Stacked Deck, gets a full-on glare for his troubles. While he slinks off to nurse his wounds, Bruce leaves with a swirl of his cape and she's left alone again slurping on her mocha…

That was undoubtedly it: the Stacked Deck, pool hall and poker den, notorious gathering point for the scum and villainy of Gotham. Alfred's reference to careful card play was clearly alluding to the high stakes games that often took place there. Moreover, it made sense that Bruce would be in such a den of iniquity, taking his anger out on the worst the city had to offer.

From what she recalled the bar was down by the city harbour, so Diana made her way swiftly to the seafront, flying up and down the water's edge as the mournful blare of fog horns echoed out across the bay. It didn't take her long to spot the pool hall, hunkered down beneath the looming overhang of the Bayshore Expressway.

It was a simple two-storey affair, what looked to be a repurposed warehouse with a curved roof of corrugated iron. A faulty red neon sign, the light for deck's 'e' unlit and broken, hung above a pair of windows thick with dirt. Various motorbikes were haphazardly parked on the parking lot of the building, their bodywork daubed with white and blue gang colours. The bar seemed quiet; there was no apparent sign of Bruce. Diana resolved to wait for him a while, to see if he would make an appearance in line with Alfred's coded instructions.

In the event, she did not have long to wait.

No sooner had she alighted on another building in the shadow of the expressway than one of the windows in the Stacked Deck burst open. Fragments of glass blanketed the limp body of a gangbanger as he bounced like a tennis ball on the hard concrete of the car park. Bruce appeared in his wake, haloed by the shards of the broken window, the white lenses of his cowl glowing ferociously in the darkness.

Diana gasped slightly at the sight of him. She had never seen him look so much like vengeance, so much like the night.

She shifted slightly, suddenly uncomfortable, and her hand dislodged some scree from the roof of the building. The small stones spattered noisily to the ground below and Batman whipped his head toward Diana, his eyes narrowing even further as he spotted her. Without so much as a word he turned on his heel and stalked back into the shadowy interior of the pool hall, ignoring her.

Diana nearly boiled with anger and bolted through the window, landing amidst a jumbled mess of broken chairs and upended tables. She counted at least twelve hoodlums lying amongst the wreckage, all of them dressed in the same get-up: blue jeans, white t-shirt and a black leather vest with the picture of a laughing devil emblazoned on the back.

A ceiling fan cast moving shadows across the walls, twisting lazily overhead as it tried to freshen the stale air of the pool hall. The place stank of beer and sweat, of too much testosterone gathered in one place, of dangerous men fuelled by bad intentions. Diana gingerly picked her way through the debris and comatose bodies, senses alert for any sign of Bruce, but it appeared he had done his usual trick of melding into the shadows without a trace.

Toward the rear of the club she spotted three other unconscious thugs, looking like bloated mimes with their white-washed faces and bulging muscles. Set apart from the other gang members, the trio were trussed up in coiled lengths of thick black rope – Batman's handiwork, no doubt. Just as Diana was about to approach them for a closer inspection she felt rather than saw Bruce move behind her and whirled to face him.

"What are you doing in my city, Princess?" Sometimes, his pet epithet for her sounded like a sign of affection. Tonight, with his harsh voice and glaring eyes, it simply sounded like an insult.

"Trying to see if the rumours about you tearing it apart were true." Diana kept her voice neutral, then looked about herself at the strewn bodies and broken furniture for emphasis. "Seems that they were."

Bruce looked…dishevelled, in the half light of the bar. It was the only way to describe him. The armour of his costume was dented in a couple of places and his cloak had a long tear down the side of it. Thick stubble shrouded his chin – several days' worth, if she had to guess.

"How I operate in Gotham doesn't concern you," replied Bruce dismissively. He made as if to turn away from her, but Diana reached out to grab his arm, stopping the movement.

"It does when you shut off teleporter coverage and stop all communication with the League."

"I've been out of contact with the League before, Princess," he said, shrugging out of her grip and stalking over to the trio of bound thugs.

"Yes, but never to this extent. It's like you're in some sort of self-imposed exile."

Batman simply grunted in response, before bending down to scrape something off the shoes of one of the mimes. He produced a small test tube and deposited the scraping, but clumsily dropped the vial before he could place it back inside his utility belt. With a curse Batman chased after it, looking almost comical as he did so, hunched over, practically crawling on his hands and knees, finally reaching the test tube as it came to rest between two dusty floorboards.

Diana would have laughed at the sight were it not for the fact that she found the whole scene rather disturbing; she could not remember the last time she'd actually seen Batman _drop_ something. He was usually such an example of the best of Man's World: the proud warrior, forever alert, always standing on the balls of his feet, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

She opted to bite her tongue, not wanting to make a bad situation worse by commenting on it, and silently watched as he walked back over to the bound thugs and finished taking his samples.

"Who are they?" Diana asked when he was done.

"Lar, Mo and Cur. Cronies who run with the Joker from time to time."

"And the others?"

"Collateral damage." Batman paused for a moment, as though he were contemplating whether or not to say anything further before deciding to continue. "The Street Demonz. With a 'z'." She saw his cheek twitch slightly just beneath his left eye, a clear indication that he was unimpressed with such a mangling of the English language. "Small time hoods with aspirations of grandeur. I've had run-ins with them before, but tonight they just happened to get in the way."

"Of you finding them." Diana pointed toward the clown-faced trio.

"Yes." Batman stood up, before making his way over to the shattered window.

She followed him, hovering slightly off the ground to avoid the debris underfoot. "Why was finding them so important?"

She saw Bruce go tense for a moment, every muscle rigid, as though an electrical current had passed through him. "It's none of your business, Princess."

With that, he fired his grapple gun at the building opposite and took to the air, seeking to end their conversation.

But Diana was in no mood to be dismissed so readily, so she immediately followed him, touching down on the rooftop just after he landed. In a way, leaving the bar suited her; now that they were out of earshot of the various thugs and gangbangers she could start to press him for more information.

"Stop following me." The command was barked, but Diana had heard the tone often enough to be one of the few people able to shrug it off.

"No, Bruce. Not until we talk about what's going on with you."

Batman stalked over to her, jabbing his index finger toward her face. "First, never use my real name when I'm in costume in Gotham." He thrust his finger at her again for emphasis. "And second, we have nothing to talk about."

Diana felt like grabbing the offending digit and snapping it in two, but she reigned in her temper as she spoke to him. "You and I both know that this behaviour started as soon as we came back from Noveria."

"Noveria?" Batman asked, incredulous. "You think this is to do with our little moment?" He gave out a bitter laugh. "That's a little egotistic, even for you."

He tried to turn away from her again and this time Diana let go of her anger, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder.

"How DARE you! We've all been worried about you – me, Kal, J'onn, even Wally! You shut all of us out and the only thing I could think of that was different was…was our kiss."

"The kiss has nothing to do with it," he replied, pulling away from Diana before glancing down at her hand, still gripping his shoulder. "Now let go of me, Princess."

"No."

The next thing Diana knew Batman had one hand breaking her hold, the other on her elbow, and she was pivoting through the air to land with a thud on the concrete roof.

The move took her by surprise, but she responded without thought, with the instincts of a warrior, kicking and sweeping Bruce's legs out from underneath him. He twisted and rolled into the fall before springing upward, guard raised, coming to his feet the exact same time as she came to her own.

Diana dropped her arms to her sides, showing that she had no wish for a sparring match with Batman. "This is ridiculous! If what happened between us on Noveria isn't the problem, then what is?"

Bruce sighed then peeled back his cowl to rub at his face. She managed to stifle another unbidden gasp of surprise, not only at the uncharacteristic recklessness of the gesture – Batman, revealing his face in Gotham, in costume, was surely unheard of – but also the general state of his appearance. Bruce's eyes were tired and sunken, dark wells in the ashen landscape of his face, pale beneath the customary Wayne perma-tan. Together with his thick coating of stubble and the general state of the Batsuit, she had never seen him look so haggard.

As she stared at him – not quite open mouthed, but not far from it – Batman pinched his fingers together on the bridge of his nose, as though he were gathering himself for some arduous challenge.

What Diana saw next was a transformation that bordered on the startling.

Bruce seemed to somehow soften before her, his previously sepia tinged tones flowing back toward colour. The tan appeared to return to his cheeks, his hollow eyes regaining some of their spark as he flashed a rakish grin at her.

"You know what?" he asked, voice light and mellifluous as he took a step toward Diana. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just kidding myself that what happened between us on Noveria isn't the issue."

Another step forward. "Maybe I should stop fighting what I feel for you."

Yet another step and Bruce was mere inches away from Diana, staring at her with hungry eyes, causing her breath to hitch in her throat. "Maybe we should _both_ stop fighting it."

And then he was pressing himself against her, his arms encircling her waist, hot breath tickling her neck deliciously.

Diana was almost overwhelmed. The words were what she had wanted to hear for so long, the actions more than she could have hoped for. She desperately wanted to melt into Bruce, to return his embrace and crush their lips together in a fiery kiss. Unbidden, her arms began to caress his back, reaching up to entwine his black hair.

But even as she did so her intuition screamed that Bruce was only teasing her, using the playboy persona as another form of defence, as much as he did his gadgets and Kevlar.

And besides, Diana thought, drawing in a deep breath, Bruce _smelt_. Badly.

Yet even though she knew he was only playing her, even though he was unkempt and unwashed, it still took a great deal of willpower to push his face away from her neck.

"Batman…as much as I'm flattered…right now you stink."

The accusation about his hygiene did little to deter Bruce, who continued to grasp her eagerly as he started to move his mouth toward hers. So Diana slapped him, her hand cracking against his face, not with anything near her full power, but enough to leave a red, five-fingered print on his cheek.

She returned her gaze to his, saw that the playboy was gone again, the angles of Bruce's face turning hard as he frowned at her. "I thought this is what you wanted, Princess?"

For a brief moment Diana contemplated slapping him again, but her concern for him was able to overpower the anger roiling inside of her.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head sadly as she cupped his cheek with her hand, covering the area where she had just him. "Not like this…not like this."

For a moment his eyes looked forlorn, like those of a man sick with some unspoken grief. "I… I'm sorry, Princess," he whispered, his voice hoarse, his hand twitching by his side, as though he wanted to cradle her face in return. Diana suddenly felt as though she were looking beyond the barriers, beyond the playboy and the vigilante, to the real Bruce, the man that she could perhaps one day fall for, if only he would let himself open up to her. But then he was pulling the cowl back down over his face, the white lenses covering up any hint of emotion, and the moment was gone.

"You know as well as I do that this isn't like you. Just tell me what's wrong. Please." The Amazon inside her hated the fact she was begging a man for information, but it seemed that with Bruce her usual instincts didn't apply.

"It's a family matter," he replied, his voice flat and uncompromising, the transformation back to the vigilante complete. "Like I said before: none of your business."

A family matter? That gave Diana pause for thought and she bit back on an angry response before it had time to form. She knew Batman was fiercely protective of his young charges; even his friends in the League seldom had direct dealings with any of the young members of the Bat-clan, save for a few occasions when Kal had worked with Bruce in the past.

She thought of the loss of family that Bruce had experienced before, the grief and agony of witnessing his parents gunned down in front of him. If there was one thing that could truly send Batman over the edge it would be something bad happening to one of his surrogate family.

Diana recalled how Alfred had earlier mentioned Bruce being out on patrol with Batgirl, whilst Nightwing was on the news only yesterday, a piece about him busting up a gang in Blüdhaven. That just left…

"Robin? Oh, no, please…not Robin…" She saw how Bruce turned stock still as she uttered the Boy Wonder's name, realised she had hit her mark. "Hera…he's just a child…"

"You think I don't know that, Princess?" Bruce replied, nearly exclaimed. "You think I don't blame myself for putting him in harm's way?"

"Gods, Bruce, no! That's not what I meant!" She hadn't meant to utter his name again, but this time around he didn't correct her on it, too distracted by the guilt that seemed to wrap around him like a cloak. "He…he's still alive?"

"Yes. But missing."

"And that's why you've been tearing Gotham apart," Diana said, putting words to the dawning realisation. "You've been searching for him."

Batman nodded curtly in confirmation. When he spoke next his voice was bitter and without irony. "Well congratulations, Princess. You've been able to get the ugly truth of my failure out of me. Do you feel better now?"

"Bruce...I… I'm sorry." She stared intently into the white lenses of the cowl, trying to convey to the man beneath how much she wanted to help him. "Let me help… I'll go tell the others and—"

"No," he said, cutting her off abruptly. "I don't need your help or anyone else's. Gotham is my responsibility. _Tim_ is my responsibility."

Diana took a deep breath. "Well, if not the rest of the League, then what about me? _I_ want to help."

Batman simply laughed bitterly again. "Do you know Gotham better than me? Or Nightwing? Or even Batgirl? You're no detective, Diana; even Alfred is better at solving mysteries. You'd be a hindrance, not a help."

His words had their desired effect, her cheeks glowing crimson from the sting of the insult. But Diana said nothing in response, knowing that when Batman was in such a mood there was no reasoning with him, and when he spoke next each word was slow and measured.

"Now get out of my city."


	5. Quicken the Heart

A/N: Thanks to all those who have reviewed, favourite and followed so far. Like most writers on here, I find it a massive motivator when people seem to be enjoying what I write, so please folks, keep 'em coming!

To answer a couple of the reviews left last chapter: yes, Batman is being typical stubborn, prideful Batman, not wanting outside help in Gotham. Which is exactly how things were set down in DCAU canon in Return of the Joker, around which this continuity diverges. Can Diana get through to him? You'll just have to keep reading to find out...

Anyways, after this chapter I am on holiday for a couple of weeks and will likely not have much in the way of computer access, so my weekly-ish schedule will naturally be delayed as a result.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Quicken the Heart**

Batman stood in darkness for a while after Wonder Woman left.

Even on a roof as open and exposed as this one he was able to find some gloom to hide in. He reclined in the lee of the rooftop entrance, formed where the wall of the small, angular structure met the flat asphalt surface of the building. Standing like this, in his adopted home of the shadows, breathing the black night air deep into his lungs, helped to give him back some of the control that Diana always seemed to strip from him.

He thought back on his encounter with her, how he'd commanded her to get out of Gotham, the conflicting mixture of relief and disappointment he'd felt when she did as he asked, turning away without another word and taking off into the threatening night sky.

Stupid, that she could still affect him so, especially when Tim was out there, missing or taken, his fate uncertain.

A visit at the manor from Clark – always playing the role of reporter, sticking his nose in where it wasn't wanted – had been an unwelcome surprise. It was only fortunate happenstance that he and Barbara were out on patrol at the time, and that Alfred was working in the depths of the Batcave, analysing data like the accomplished field officer he had once been. Yet whilst Bruce was grateful to have avoided the awkward questions that Clark would undoubtedly have raised, he knew he could always cope with the earnest Smallville ways of the Big Blue Boy Scout.

But Diana? She was another matter entirely. He should have anticipated her tracking him down, been better prepared to handle the storm of emotions that she stirred within him.

Bruce finally hauled himself away from the shadow of the roof door, moving over to the side of the building overlooking the Stacked Deck. He knew that his behaviour toward Diana this evening was beyond the pale, using the attraction between them as a weapon, trying to wound her enough to discourage her from prying into what was truly ailing him.

It was why his skin still burned where she had slapped him.

He sub-consciously moved a hand to his cheek, rubbing the spot where her hand had cracked against his face. It went without saying that his actions were for the best: the fewer people that knew about Robin's disappearance the better. There would be nothing worse than having the likes of Clark or Wally blundering about in Gotham, trying their best to help but only making things worse.

Yet had he really done anything to delay such a prospect? Despite his best efforts Diana had somehow managed to get beyond his defences, cutting through to the heart of the matter with her usual intuition. It was constantly disconcerting, how she was able to wheedle the truth out of him where no one else could, save perhaps Alfred. And the butler had many more years of experience than her in that regard.

One thing _was_ for certain: Diana had once again proven herself a dangerous distraction, turning him away from his investigation of the Stacked Deck before it was complete.

With a sigh of frustration he aimed his grapple gun back at the pool hall and swooped down to the parking lot, landing next to the still-unconscious gang member he'd thrown through the window earlier. He strode over to the bar entrance almost on autopilot, shards of glass crunching noisily underfoot.

As soon as he re-entered the club he realized that something was off.

It took his tired mind a fraction of a second longer than usual to process the visual data in front of him: the smashed interior of the pool hall, unconscious forms strewn liberally about. Mo, Lar and Curl were still slumbering and tied securely in the corner; the barkeep still hanging over the liquor-stained counter; the prone figures of the Street Demonz stll scattered amongst the debris of destroyed furniture.

Except… Except…

He felt a slight movement behind him, a subtle shift in the air, at the exact same moment he realized two of the Street Demonz were missing. He ducked instantly, folding himself backwards like a limbo dancer, feeling the whistle of air that brushed by his chin as a thick iron chain passed mere millimetres in front of his face.

Batman shot an arm upwards in response, grabbing the wrist of his assailant as he followed through, carried clumsily forward by the weight of the chain. Levering himself upward, Bruce yanked on the arm, slamming the gang member against his back. The impact knocked the wind from the Street Demon, expelling a lungful of fetid breath past Bruce's ear.

Batman placed his free hand on the gangbanger's elbow, then pulled downward on the wrist until he felt the crunch of connecting bones and ligaments as the joint snapped in two. The Street Demon bellowed noisily from the pain and dropped the chain from limp fingers. It clanked noisily on the hardwood floor as Batman flipped the screaming ganger over his back, throwing him into an upended pool table and knocking him out cold.

Now where was the second Street Demon?

Behind Bruce there was the distinctive scrape of metal on metal. It was a sound he was all too familiar with, one that had been burned into his memory as a young boy, standing in a fog-shrouded alley in Gotham.

The sound of a gun being cocked.

Batman tried to spin toward his opponent, hand reaching instinctively for a Batarang, furious that he'd been caught flat-footed like some rank amateur. Even as he twisted he knew it was already futile.

There was a twin-barreled roar of thunder from behind, incredibly loud under the bar's low-slung ceiling. The first shot caught him in his right leg, an intense burst of agony that made him stumble to one knee. The second shot punched into his back, pitching him forward onto the grimy surface of the Stacked Deck. Bruce hit the wooden floor with a solid crash, knocking the wind out of him.

Just trying to breathe was proving difficult and his vision swam as he tried to push himself back up.

Yet despite his overwhelming tiredness, despite the dust and dirt that filled his mouth, despite the hammer-blow to his back and the searing pain in his leg, his gloved hands gained purchase on the slippery wooden floorboards and he found the strength to rise and turn toward his opponent.

The Street Demon was short and wiry, with a face only a mother could love. His right hand clutched a double-barrelled sawn-off, broken apart and waiting to be reloaded, whilst the other scrabbled about in the pocket of his cracked leather jacket, fishing for shells.

A wave of fury accompanied a burst of adrenaline that surged through Batman. Time seemed to slow for him as he ran towards the gang member, trying to close the distance between them as quickly as possible.

_First step_. The eyes of the Street Demon widened in surprise, his mouth framing an expletive that Batman couldn't quite hear above the pounding in his ears.

_Second step. _He watched as the pocket of the jacket crinkled inward, the thug pinching his fingers around the shells.

_Third step. _Batman tracked the shell-carrying hand as it crawled slowly through the air.

_Fourth Step. _The open chamber of the shotgun stared back at him like the dead eyes of a corpse.

_Fifth step. _A slight fumble as the first round was pushed into the gun's breech.

_Sixth step. _The second shell was in the chamber now and the Street Demon was clicking the barrel back together, bringing the gun back up to point at Batman's head…

And then suddenly the Dark Knight was on top of the gangbanger. He used his left forearm to deflect the barrel upwards and the Street Demon squeezed down on the trigger an instant later. The judder of the shot reverberated up his arm before it tore into the roof of the bar in a shower of wood and plaster. He brought his right arm round, smashing the elbow onto the bridge of the Street Demon's nose, cartilage disintegrating in a sticky spray of blood.

The thug fell to the floor, his breathing wet and ragged through his shattered nose. Bruce stumbled slightly as the adrenalin wore off and the feeling started to return to his leg. He removed a gauntlet and felt around the back of his thigh and knee, where the brunt of the pain seemed to be concentrated. When he looked at his hand again it was red and sticky with his own blood. He realised that he needed to leave the Stacked Deck as soon as possible; if two of the Street Demonz had already recovered it would not be long until others did, and right now he was in no condition to defend himself.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Bruce limped his way outside, each step a jarring jolt of pure agony. Normally, he would regulate the pain through some of the meditative techniques he had learnt, cutting it off at the source by concentrating on his surroundings and the rhythm of his breathing. But his lungs were still pained and he could only pant loudly, the sound resonating strangely through the cowl, like a seashell pressed against his ear.

It took perhaps a minute for Batman to hobble over to the exit. As soon as he reached the outside he fired his grapple at the building opposite, where he had stood just a short while ago with Diana. He grunted with pain, the wounded muscles in his back taking the pressure of his weight as he was hauled through the air.

His landing on the roof was hardly the stuff of legend. It was an ungainly attempt to haul his battered body over the rim of the building, literally falling over the other side in a crumpled heap. Regaining his footing, Batman looked behind him and saw a dark streak of blood where he had scraped along the wall.

Bleeding through the Batsuit was never a good sign and Bruce half-walked, half-stumbled to the only shelter that the rooftop offered, in the crook of the building that he had so recently lingered in. As he reached the security of the shadows he slumped against the wall and pressed a hand against the communicator in his ear. It would be so tempting to turn it back on, to reinstate the teleportation protocols over Gotham, to let Clark or J'onn know where he was so they could beam him up to the safety and security of the Watchtower.

But then he thought of Tim, how he probably felt frightened and alone, let down by the man who was his mentor, his guardian, his adoptive father. Bruce was guilty of neglect of his duties, too busy running around the galaxy with the Justice League to pay attention to Gotham. He didn't deserve to use their resources to get him out of this situation. More to the point, why would he go running to the League when it was the League itself that had caused this?

Instead Batman opened the first aid compartment of his utility belt, pulling out an antiseptic spray, a handful of gauze pads and a wedge of bandages. He angled his leg upwards and saw that his thigh had been peppered with a tight cluster of holes, all of them leaking blood. Ripping away the frayed Nomex he applied the aerosol to the injured area, stifling a scream as he almost dug the nozzle directly into a wound, too keen to ensure it was properly applied. He waited for the pain and nausea to subside before applying the gauze, packing it tightly around the affected area and then wrapping it in place with a swath of bandages.

When it was done he inspected his handiwork. It was not exactly his finest field dressing but it would do for now.

He suddenly felt fatigued and leaned back against the wall as wispy tendrils of darkness began to creep across his vision. He fought back against the tiredness, forcing himself to remain awake; to fall asleep in this situation would be dangerous, leave him at risk of bleeding to death, with or without the bandages.

Even with his increasingly tired mind Batman knew that he would not be able to sit this way for long, so he again searched his utility belt, pulling out the remote control device that would summon the Batmobile. If he was able to save enough energy for when it arrived he could climb inside the safety of its bulletproof compartment, head home on autopilot to Alfred, who would patch him up as he always did…

Just as Bruce was about to press the button his blood-slicked hands lost their purchase on the device and it skittered away across the rooftop, briefly coming to rest against the grated panel of an air vent. For an agonising moment it hung there, almost seeming to tease him, before leisurely tipping into the outlet and tumbling noisily downward.

"Typical." Bruce smiled mirthlessly as he watched the gadget disappear from view. "Just typical."

And so he sat with his back against the rough stone of the wall, trying to fight off the sleep that threatened to take him, eventually deciding that he had no option other than to accept help or slowly bleed out on the cold rooftop. With Diana still likely to be in the environs of Gotham a call to the League remained out of the question, so that left only one option for him as he thumbed his communicator into life.

* * *

Diana flew beneath a steel sky shot through with heavy coils of black rust, the dark clouds above her a perfect reflection of her mood. Buffeted by the heavy winds that swept in from the rocky Gotham coastline, she soared over Batman's glimmering and terrifying city, reflecting on how her conversation with Bruce had not gone according to plan, not at all.

She'd expected the usual degree of emotional detachment from him, the hostile glare and cold words. But the outright hostility had taken her by surprise, not to mention his dishevelled appearance and the uncharacteristic sloppiness to his movements. In his current state Batman was clearly a man on the edge, filled with even more intensity than usual, pushed to the brink by Robin's apparent kidnapping.

Still, it didn't justify the way Bruce had tried to use her own feelings against her, nor the wounding words when he refused her help.

Diana swooped downward, flying first between two art-deco apartment blocks, then a glass faced skyscraper, finally slowing by the rearing spires of a gothic clock tower. She caught a glimpse of leering gargoyles carved into the tower's granite skin, their grotesque grins menacing in the darkness. Gotham was filled with such statues, forbidding sentries that had watched over the citizens of the city since long before Bruce took on the mantle of Batman. She felt like punching one again, feeling the stone crunch under her hand, like it did when she first tried to hint to Bruce as to her feelings for him.

Unsure of where exactly in Gotham she was, Diana turned full circle, trying to see some road sign or street name that would give her a clue about her location. As she completed the turn there was the faintest flicker of movement above. Lifting her head, she saw a lithe figure perched atop one of the skyscrapers, what looked like a yellow cape snapping in the wind behind it. Diana blinked, unsure of what she had seen, and then the figure was gone.

She flew toward the skyscraper in hopes of a closer look. The building was a modern design, with a glass-panelled, gull-winged roof with an access ramp running through the middle of it. That was where the shadows were deepest, so Wonder Woman headed directly for the ramp, knowing that if one of the Batclan was present they would naturally gravitate towards the cover it provided.

With the stormy clouds blocking the light of the moon Diana struggled to pierce the darkness, so she jumped with surprise when a female voice spoke from no more than a few metres away.

"Wow. The _actual_ Wonder Woman. I mean, I thought it was you when I first saw you earlier, but still, actually meeting you like this…just wow."

"Batgirl, I presume?" replied Diana, turning toward the approximate direction of the voice.

The lone female member of the Batclan stood up as Diana uttered her name, a shy smile playing around her lips.

"Hi, Wonder Woman," said Batgirl, moving toward her with a nervous expression, hand extended outward. "I have to confess this is all a bit surreal for me… You're kind of a heroine of mine."

Grasping the proffered hand, Wonder Woman smiled warmly at the compliment, trying to put the younger woman at ease. "It's a pleasure to meet you…Barbara, right? And please…call me Diana."

"Haha, wow!" replied Batgirl, momentarily taken aback. "So Bruce went and revealed my secret identity did he, Wonder Wo—sorry, I mean, Diana?"

Diana blushed slightly at the gaffe. "I'm sorry, Batgirl, I meant no offense," she said, wondering how it was possible that she seemed to be doing nothing but apologizing tonight.

"Oh, it's cool," replied Barbara, waving away her discomfort. "I mean, if I can't trust Wonder Woman with my identity, who can I trust, right?"

They lapsed into silence for a moment and Diana used the opportunity to study Batgirl.

Barbara was younger than Diana expected, probably only in her early twenties, and shorter too, no more than five-seven or five-eight. Alongside the shock of red hair that fell across her shoulders, perhaps the most striking thing about her appearance was the clarity of her pale blue eyes, so wide and expressive in the domino mask section of her half-cowl. They seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, full of a certain inquisitiveness that Diana couldn't help but warm up to. She was so used to seeing only the cold white lenses of Batman's cowl, trying to read their slightest movement for some clue as to the emotions of the man beneath. The contrast between him and Batgirl could not have been starker.

"So you saw me earlier then?" Diana finally asked, when she felt that the silence between them risked becoming awkward.

"Yeah," replied Batgirl, obviously relieved to continue talking. "When you were crisscrossing the centre of town. I kinda lost you after you took off over the stadium though." Barbara shrugged, which Diana found endearing. "I was hoping you'd come back this way so I could see if…well, if it was really you."

"Well, it's definitely me," laughed Diana.

"Yeah, I can see that," Barbara said with a smile. "So what are you doing in Gotham, anyways?"

"Well, I came to see Batman," Diana replied, pursing her lips together as she uttered his name.

"Hmmm, so I'm guessing from your expression that he was probably a little rough on you?"

"You could say that," scowled Diana.

"Ah, ok," said Barbara thoughtfully. "And how much do you know about our situation in Gotham right now?"

"You mean about Robin being missing?"

"Wow, so he told you that, huh?" asked Batgirl, her eyes widening with surprise at the revelation.

"Well, yes, but it was something of a struggle."

"Getting information from the boss often can be, especially when he'd prefer to keep it to himself. And this whole thing with Robin…I know he feels responsible for it; it's eating him up inside. I don't think I've ever seen him so…possessed, for lack of a better word. So trust me, it's a really big thing that he told you anything about it at all."

Diana sighed, recognizing the truth behind Barbara's words. "I just wish he would accept my help," she replied, her hands animated, trying to convey the exasperation she felt. "The stupid, stubborn fool."

Barbara laughed. "Yep, that just about sums him up." The younger woman paused before continuing, looking at Diana askance. "If it means anything, though, he seems…lighter, somehow, when he talks about you. Less grim. I think I actually saw him genuinely smile once when he was telling a story about you." Batgirl turned to regard her again, those expressive eyes shining with honesty, not a hint of mockery there. "And I guess that's all we can hope for in the end, right? To change them for the better."

"Change them?" asked Diana confusedly. "Who do you mean?"

A smile of amusement creased Batgirl's face. "Why men, silly! I'm not talking about changing them wholesale, or controlling them…that's a little bit psycho. But y'know, most men can be smelly and rude, push all our buttons without even trying."

Diana almost giggled, tried to suppress it, instead let out a little snort of amusement.

Batgirl simply raised an eyebrow at her. Diana wondered if all the Bat-clan could do that. Did Alfred and Bruce give them lessons in eyebrow expressions?

This time she did giggle, covering her mouth slightly as she did so.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry," she said, flapping her hand in apology. Diana calmed herself with a deep breath before continuing in explanation. "It's just that Bruce was a little smelly just now."

"Eeeuuw!" replied Barbara, scrunching her nose in distaste. "I hate it when he gets like that."

Diana laughed again. "You mean it's a regular occurrence? I'm not sure I could cope with that."

"Well, not exactly regular," shrugged Batgirl. "But after a two or three day patrol, with all the physical exertion that goes on? Not like the Batsuit has a built-in shower, so yeah, Bruce can honk a little from time to time."

This time it was Diana's turn to wrinkle her nose up and show what she thought of a smelly Batman. "Haven't you ever tried talking to him about it?"

"No," said Barbara, "but I can imagine the response if I did: 'The Mission can't wait, Batgirl; crime in Gotham doesn't stop while I take a shower'."

She said the last bit with a mockingly deep voice and both women collapsed into a fit of giggles afterwards.

"But seriously," Barbara continued, when the snickering between them had subsided. "What I mean with Bruce…I'm not talking about changing his haircut, his teeth, whatever. More his…emotional state. Someone as controlled as he is, being able to quicken his heart?" The younger woman got a wistful look in her eyes. "I sure wish I could do that to someone," she sighed.

"I…I don't know what to say," responded Diana, her emotions in a whirl. To have her suspicions about Bruce's feeling for her confirmed, if only indirectly, by someone who evidently knew him so well…it was more than she could have hoped for, particularly in light of what had transpired earlier this evening.

"Just say you won't give up on him," Batgirl answered simply, before aiming her grapple line at a nearby rooftop.

"I won't," Diana said firmly. She walked over to Barbara, placing her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "And thank you, Batgirl[C23]."

"No problem," Barbara shot back with a smile. "It's just great to have met one of my heroines and have her be so nice." Diana blushed awkwardly at the compliment and looked down at her boots. "And by the way…what I said about the boss…"

Batgirl suddenly swung away toward her targeted rooftop. Diana snapped her head round to follow Barbara's trajectory, straining to listen as the wind tried to whip away her words.

"You didn't hear any of it from me."

"Don't worry, Barbara," Diana grinned, speaking quietly as Batgirl's slim profile dropped from view. "Your secret's safe with me."

She thought briefly about flying back to the Stacked Deck, about having things out with Bruce once again, but quickly dismissed the notion. Now was not the time, not with their recent encounter still at the forefront of her mind, the cruel words and despicable tactics he had used fresh in her memory.

Just as Diana was about to head back toward Metropolis, having finally gathered her bearings, she was taken by surprise as a length of black cable sped past her head, catching with a clang on the metallic access ramp. The next thing she knew Batgirl was swooping back up toward the building and landing next to her. A worried expression was writ large across her half-masked features and when she spoke next Diana felt as though her chest was being squeezed by an unseen hand.

"It's Batman," said Barbara. "He's in trouble."


	6. Undercurrents

A/N: So the delay was somewhat longer than I anticipated, which I apologise for. Post-holiday blues and all that. Since this is my longest chapter so far hopefully you'll find it was worth the wait :)

Once again, I am deeply appreciative of any reviews, follows, favourites etc. In fact, reading the kind comments is what got me back into the flow of things, so it really does make a difference.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Undercurrents**

Flying as fast as her powers would allow, Wonder Woman tore across the Gotham skyline, the gridded streets of the city below blurring into streaks of yellowed light.

_Hera, please let him be alright._

The increasingly bitter rain whipped in across Gotham Bay with a vengeance. It clawed at her with icy fingers, stinging her lips and eyes and skin with a thousand frosty pinpricks. She shrugged off the sensation and drove onward, desperate to reach Bruce as quickly as possible.

_Hera, please…_

It seemed to take forever for her to reach the Stacked Deck, even longer to frantically scan the surrounding rooftops for him.

…_let him be alright._

When she finally did spot Bruce - slumped weakly against a wall, a blood-soaked bandage applied to his leg - her heart crumpled like tissue paper.

_You are a warrior, Diana. Compose yourself._

She landed a short distance from him and approached slowly, her legs weakened with worry, unable to tell at first if his eyes were open under the cowl. It was only when he inclined his head toward her that she finally released a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding.

"Princess," he said, a thin smile creasing his lips. "I was…expecting…Batgirl."

"I ran into her just now," Diana shrugged nonchalantly, trying to act as if the sight of him injured didn't affect her. "We both thought I would be quicker to find you."

Up close like this she could see that the field dressing on his leg was sopping wet, coloured in gory shades of carmine and burgundy. Her experience as a warrior told her this was a good sign; arterial blood tended to be bright crimson, so no major artery had been severed. But somehow she couldn't accept that an injury to Bruce could in any way be a good thing.

Diana knew full well that he was mortal and capable of being hurt; she had seen Batman injured often enough, whether it be after his crash on San Baquero, when he was bitten and poisoned by Copperhead, or more recently on Noveria. Add to that the times he had come close to death: cornered during the Imperium invasion, trying to crash the Watchtower onto the Thanagarian hyperspace generator, nearly plummeting to his doom when they fought the Dark Heart in Nevada. And those were just the occasions that she could easily recall. But given his current state of mind, there was something altogether more affecting about seeing Batman hurt this time.

The asphalt roofing felt rough on her skin as she knelt next to Bruce. Taking care not to harm him, she placed her hands beneath his back and lifted him upward. Even with her best efforts to be gentle he still gritted his teeth and let out a groan of pain.

"Do you not have any painkillers in your utility belt?" Diana asked, her tone concerned.

"Took some…morphine…earlier. It's in my…second left compartment," replied Bruce, each word an effort. He wrapped an arm behind her neck as he spoke. "But no…more. Don't…like…to use it. Loss of control."

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly in response. _You and your foolish control, Bruce._

With the merest thought Wonder Woman took off into the sky, taking the direct route back to Wayne Manor, across Gotham Bay. The concrete expanse of the Bayshore Expressway was just starting to disappear from view when Bruce craned his neck toward her and looked her in the eye.

"I'm glad I didn't…scare you off," he said, his voice strained but seemingly sincere.

"I'm an Amazon," smiled Diana, attempting levity. "No mere man could ever do that." She wasn't certain that her effort at humour reached her eyes, but it was the best she could muster under the circumstances.

At this time of night the bay was coloured a deep charcoal grey. The gathering wind whipped across the water, forming sharp, angular waves as it surged toward the shore. Hardly any boats were out to brave the churning current, though a few hardy tugs still chugged back and forth, calling out to one another with their mournful horns as they fought against the hostile conditions.

Even with her Amazon strength the constant buffeting from the wind was weakening Diana. She didn't want to risk dropping Bruce, so she picked her speed up even further, driving into the headwind as the cliffs of the Gotham coastline started to rear into view before her.

Batman shifted slightly in her grasp and swallowed dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat, the squashed lump of it moving visibly under the rubberised sheath of his cowl.

"Do you remember…Gorilla City, Princess?" he asked, his voice sounding increasingly tired. "How I searched…for you…under that missile?"

How could she not? She remembered everything about that moment: the crushing weight of metal as the missile lay atop of her, how her ears rang as though a dense chord was being struck inside them, the broken chunks of unyielding concrete that dug painfully into her back. And Batman, his urgent voice calling out to her over the scraping of rocks as he searched for her in the debris…

"Yes," she replied in little more than a whisper, "of course I remember."

"Should have realised then…" Bruce muttered sleepily. "Shoulda realised…"

"Realised what, Bruce?"

He started to mumble something incoherent in response but his words trailed away in the wind. Diana realised with horror that he was starting to doze off, the exhaustion from his wounds and the earlier hit of morphine tipping him over into sleep. She had known plenty of brave warriors who succumbed to their injuries whilst sleeping, despite having been well on the road to recovery beforehand, so she quickly shook Bruce in order to keep him awake.

Instantly he jerked his head upward, grimacing again as he did so, and Diana felt momentarily guilty for having hurt him - even if it was for his own good.

"Not so rough, thanks, Princess," he snapped, a little venom returning to his voice.

She opted to take his anger as a good sign. At least it meant some vitality was starting to return to him. And certainly an angry Bruce beat the frighteningly still and quiet one she had seen just now on the rooftop.

"I suppose I should just let you doze off and slip away then," said Diana, making sure to keep her voice calm and neutral. The last thing she wanted was another argument with Bruce over something so petty.

Thankfully he lapsed into a brooding silence and it was not long until Wayne Manor heaved into view. Taking care to avoid any potential snoopers, Diana landed by one of the side entrances of the stately mansion and placed Bruce on the ground, then set to banging on the door and shouting for Alfred to come quickly.

A moment or two later the elderly butler opened the door, a frown of concern creasing his face. He shot a quick glance at Bruce, still bleeding and just about managing to sit upright on the steps.

"Master Bruce," he tutted, "Whilst it is nice to see you use one of the proper doors for a change, I must say you are something of a state. Fortunately, Batgirl radioed ahead to inform me of your injuries, so I have prepped the treatment area in the cave."

"Good to see you too, Alfred," answered Batman, sarcastically. "Besides, the patrol wasn't the problem."

Bruce looked pointedly at Diana as he spoke. She was just about to question him as to exactly what he meant by such an assertion when Alfred spoke in her stead.

"I'm sure it wasn't, sir," said the butler, more or less dismissing the notion of Bruce's injuries being the fault of anyone other than himself. "Now, Miss Diana," he continued, turning toward her, "if you will help me carry the Master down to the cave, I believe I have some work to be getting on with."

* * *

Familiarity had done little to dampen the sense of awe that Diana felt upon entering the Batcave.

The oppressive scale of the cavern system beneath Wayne Manor never ceased to amaze her. It was an effect only compounded by the various trophies and accoutrements that Batman had filled the place with. From the huge, glowing screens of the supercomputer, which dwarfed even the monitor bank in the Watchtower for size, to the vast steel girders of the Batmobile's access ramp, everything within the Batcave was writ large.

One of these days, she would have to ask Batman how he'd managed to gather some of the more bizarre items, such as the colossal props. But that day clearly wasn't going to be today, not with him lying sullen and injured in her arms.

Batman hadn't said a word since the exchange with Alfred on the doorstep. Diana understood that he probably hated looking so vulnerable – both emotionally and physically – in front of her, but that didn't mean she agreed with his petulance. She wanted to shake him and tell him how idiotic he was being, that it didn't matter to her to see him this way, but then she doubted that would be of importance to Bruce; no matter the expectations of others, he would always feel guilty of falling below his own impossibly high standards.

Momentarily lost in her thoughts, Diana only realised she had stopped moving when Batman finally deigned to speak to her. "You've fallen behind the old man," he said, his voice sullen and accusing.

She could see that he was right: Alfred was deceptively quick for someone of his advancing years and was now a good distance ahead of her. But her blood still boiled at his tone. "Be that as it may," she replied, "talk to me like that again and you can crawl the distance to catch up with him."

Batman snorted something unintelligible at her in response, so Diana growled back a riposte, some guttural warrior noise from deep in her throat. Even with the cowl on she could see that it startled him. She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as she hurried to catch up with Alfred.

Fortunately the butler halted just a short distance farther ahead. Drawing alongside him, she found herself stood by what could only be described as a miniature hospital. There were well-stocked cabinets and neatly-folded beds, expensive looking medical machines full of wires and dials, a mobile operating table and surgical instruments polished to a gleaming hum. And over in the corner, what looked to be some sort of glass or Perspex containment area, presumably for when Batman came into contact with Joker venom or other such toxins.

"If you would be so kind as to place Master Bruce on the operating table," said Alfred, indicating the steel gurney in the midst of the machinery.

Diana nodded before placing Batman gently atop the table, then backed off as Alfred quickly injected him with some form of sedative. Almost immediately Bruce seemed to relax, the tension draining out of his injured body. His breathing soon became deep and even and Alfred began to remove the bloodied bandage from his leg.

"Miss Diana," he said over his shoulder, "I must insist that you return upstairs to the manor." His tone was firm, like that of a teacher used to being obeyed. "Master Bruce will likely be in varying states of undress whilst I tend to him and he would be most put out were you to witness this. Not to mention that you must be quite famished after your journey from Metropolis and the events of this evening."

Diana was about to argue and insist upon staying when her treacherous stomach decided to rumble. Perhaps she _was_ a little hungry, now that Alfred mentioned. Besides, the butler didn't seem as though he was about to change his mind and let her stay in the cave; she was fairly certain that Bruce had gained his legendary stubbornness from his guardian.

"Alright, Alfred, I'll leave you to it," she said, nodding toward the Englishman. "But please…come and find me when you're done."

"Of course, Miss," the butler replied, cutting away the material of Batman's suit, his back still toward her.

Diana picked her way back through the Batcave, exiting via the secret entrance and coming out in the bookcase-lined study. She waited for the grandfather clock to rumble back into place then tried to remember the way to the kitchen. It had been a while since she was last a resident of Wayne Manor, and in that time she had forgotten some of her bearings.

Unable to remember the route and with one choice as good as the other, Diana opted to turn left as she exited the study. But instead of the lavishly appointed kitchen she found herself in yet another office-cum-study, one she had never been in before.

As soon as she entered the room the weight of its history bore down on her. Two marble statues stood on either side of the door, half-naked pastiches of the Venus de Milo, armed with fruit bowls held upwards in supplicant offering. They were flanked in turn by a pair of bookcases, their groaning shelves stuffed full of antique volumes, scenting the air with the musty smell of dried-out parchment and leather.

The room itself was dark and unwelcoming, unlit save for the waxen light of the moon, flooding in through a large bay window on the far wall. The pale illumination allowed her to see the office's true centrepiece, hanging above the shadowed arch of an empty fireplace, set directly on the wall opposite her: a tall, elegant painting of Martha and Thomas Wayne, dressed formally for some function or ball, their arms placed tenderly around one another's shoulders.

As if drawn by some unseen power, Diana found herself stepping onto the teal rug that consumed the study floor. It was soft beneath her feet, robbing her footfalls of sound as she walked slowly over to the painting. She arched her neck upward to regard Bruce's long-dead parents. He looked like a combination of the two of them, she realised; the deeply masculine jawline of Thomas's face, the dimpled smile and brilliant blue eyes of Martha Wayne.

Diana shivered involuntarily, suddenly cold. Teal was normally such a warm and welcoming shade, but in this room the carpet seemed to leach the walls of colour, turning their blue-grey tones even darker. She imagined Bruce standing in this cold room, the fireplace unlit, staring up at the picture of his murdered parents, the grievances of a childhood cut short breaking the veneer of his control.

This was where his compulsion to push himself – to be the best that he could be, as close to super-human as possible without _being_ super-human – came from. It was what drew her in, what made him such an irresistible lure to her attractions. It undoubtedly helped that he was beyond handsome, with his high cheekbones and full-lipped mouth, the grey-flecked eyes that sometimes spoke of the torment of his youth. Not to mention the muscled ridges of his body, toned and bulked to perfection, like a modern day Hector or Achilles.

But there were plenty of other appealing physical examples in this world of men, not least amongst them other members of the League. What she felt for Bruce went deeper than mere attraction, down through the clay which had shaped her, beyond the layered strata of her being, into the hopeful heart that beat and stamped in her chest like a wild stallion.

Sometimes she wished she could be rid of her feelings for him, be able to stop her waves of affection from continually beating against his bleak shores. Because, of course, that was the other side of Bruce; the dark intensity that fuelled him relied on his rigid self-control, his ability to compartmentalise his life and lock down his emotions. It meant he was often unkind to her, sometimes downright cruel, and if he ever did let his restraint slip – as on Noveria – the mask would soon be put back in place, implacable as ever.

Had her attraction toward Bruce been a more conscious choice, something to be turned off and on like a tap, she would have twisted things shut on him a long time ago.

Yet she could no more do that than cease to be Amazon. She was consumed by the totality of him: how the anguish of his past could have utterly broken him, left him a hollowed out husk of a man, but instead propelled him on to become the very peak of mortal men. That Batman was able to fight alongside the other founders and be considered their equal, despite having no gifts or powers of his own, bordered on the miraculous. Whilst he may not have been blessed by the Gods in the same way as Diana, Bruce had, by the force of his will alone, crafted himself into something truly worthy of their praise.

_Worthy of her love._

She stood for a while in the room, losing track of time, gazing up at the painting till her neck grew sore. Then she gave a gentle nod of respect to Bruce's parents and turned on her heel, the route to the kitchen fresh in her mind once again.

* * *

It was some time later when Alfred found Diana ensconced in the kitchen, a glass of milk in one hand and a chocolate chip cookie in the other.

"Alfred," she mumbled between mouthfuls, "these cookies are delicious!"

A more or less empty baking tray sat on the table before her. Crumbs lay scattered around and about, clear evidence of the other cookies which she had hungrily devoured.

"I'm pleased you found them to your satisfaction." Alfred smiled at her kindly, although his face looked sad at the same time. "Master Bruce does not have an overly sweet tooth, so I tend to bake them mostly for Master Timothy and…well…I simply have not got out of the habit of doing so yet."

Diana swallowed the last mouthful of cookie. "You won't have to get out of the habit of baking them," she said firmly. "We'll get him back."

"I do hope so. Wayne Manor is certainly an emptier place without him."

It was clear from Alfred's facial expression that he cared deeply for the boy, yet she could somehow sense that he would not talk any further on the subject. Even with what little Diana understood of the British – and most of that having been gleamed from Sir Justin – she was aware they were not a nation of people who spoke easily of their emotions. Perhaps that was part of the reason why Bruce himself was always so reticent on the subject of his feelings, given that he had been raised by the quintessential Englishman?

As she pondered, Alfred moved to take the empty tray away. Diana couldn't help but notice the flecks of blood staining his cuffs. "How's Bruce?" she asked, giving voice to the question that had been at the forefront of her mind for the past hour or so.

"He is well, all things considered. I still have him under a general anaesthetic, but I would anticipate him being awake by the morning."

Diana let out a sigh of relief. "So his injuries were not as bad as I feared, then?"

Alfred pulled out a chair then took a seat opposite her at the oak breakfast table. "Well, the armour on the Batsuit is weakest at the rear – particularly so on the leg, where it is almost non-existent – so in that respect he couldn't have been hit in a worse place. His torso is mostly just badly bruised, although one nail did slip through a gap in his armour and penetrate his lower back. But I had to pull five shotgun pellets, two screws and a dime from his leg."

"Nails?" Diana exclaimed. "Screws and a dime?"

"Unfortunately so. The Street Demonz are in possession not only of terrible spelling, but also an equally terrible choice in weaponry. Even by Gotham's low standards they are one of the more vicious gangs in the city. I would surmise that Master Bruce was hit by some form of custom-loaded shotgun shell. Fortunately, most of the wounds did not penetrate too deeply."

"That's a…relief, I suppose."

"Yes, it is. Believe me when I say I have seen Master Bruce injured much worse than this before."

"It must be very worrying for you to see him when he is badly hurt." Hera knew that it was worrying enough for her.

The Englishman shrugged. "In truth, I have grown used to it. _Sumus quod identidem agimus_."

"We are what we repeatedly do," she translated.

"Indeed, Miss Diana. Wounds are an occupational hazard for Batman, so I simply do what I must." As Alfred finished the sentence he placed his palms face down on the table and pushed himself upward. "Now, we must find you a room for the night."

"Oh, thank you, Alfred, but there really isn't any need for you to do that."

"Nonsense. It is nearly three in the morning and Metropolis and the Watchtower are very far away. I insist."

The butler's tone clearly brooked no argument so Diana smiled her assent. "Sleep would be good, thank you."

"Excellent. If you'd like to follow me then, Miss; I took the liberty of preparing your old room."

How Alfred had found the time to make up her old bed for her, given that he'd been operating on Batman, was something of a mystery. It was almost as though the butler was in possession of some sort of pocket dimension, which allowed him to squeeze space and time and complete a myriad of tasks in the blink of an eye. But when Alfred opened the bedroom door for her all the why's, how's and wherefores' fled her mind, replaced instead with a sense of overwhelming tiredness.

The bed looked so welcoming that Diana was forced to stifle a yawn. She quickly gave Alfred her thanks, who nodded in return then quietly closed the door behind her. Within seconds she had stripped off her Wonder Woman armour and was sinking into the crisp coolness of the white linen sheets, letting out a sigh of contentment as she drifted gently off to sleep.

* * *

Back on Themyscira it was customary to rise with the dawn, so Wonder Woman woke almost as soon as the first rays of sunlight started to nose their way past the heavy curtains of her room.

She ran herself a shower, turning the temperature up until it was almost scalding, revelling in the feel of the water as it opened her pores and stripped the dirt from her skin. Afterward she towelled herself down and got dressed back into her costume before making her way to the kitchen.

Somehow, despite Diana getting up at the crack of dawn, Alfred had managed to get there well ahead of her. He'd even managed to lay out breakfast for her: a large bowl of Greek yoghurt surrounded by smaller bowls of dried fruits, almonds and muesli, as well as a jar of honey.

"Good morning, Alfred," she said cheerfully, smiling warmly at the butler as she pulled up a chair. "This looks absolutely wonderful."

"It is only a simple affair," he said modestly. "Had I been in possession of more time, I would have made your favourite breakfast of blueberry pancakes. But with the need to check in on Master Bruce I have found my time a little…limited."

Diana opened her eyes wide with concern. "Have you actually been to sleep yet, Alfred?"

It was difficult to tell whether the Englishman had slept or not. With hardly a hair out of place and his uniform still neatly pressed and starched, he looked immaculate to Diana. His face held no clues as to his level of tiredness, either; his brown eyes were as alert as ever and whilst he certainly looked old to her, the fact was that Alfred _was_ old.

"I have…napped, thank you, Miss Diana."

She snorted lightly in amusement at his response, quietly enough for Alfred not to hear her. The answer was typical of something Batman would have said had she asked him a similar question.

Sometimes it was interesting to see how much of the butler was in Bruce, both in terms of his mannerisms and his general personality. The relationship between them was clearly a complex one; whilst they were evidently extremely fond of one another, there was usually a certain professional distance maintained between them. Alfred was in many ways a surrogate father to Bruce, but he was also still a paid employee, something which he was never quite allowed to forget. After all, what sort of father still made his adult son's bed every day?

"When are you checking on Bruce next?" Diana asked between mouthfuls of heavenly yoghurt.

"Oh, in about an hour or so," replied Alfred, checking his watch.

"Well," she said cheerfully, "why don't you take a break and I can go down and see him for you?"

"That would be most generous of you, Miss."

"Excellent! Then it's settled."

"Indeed. In that case, I shall retire to my room for a brief rest. Do feel free to make full use of the manor in the meantime; things are as they were when you last stayed here, insofar as you have every courtesy extended to you."

"Thank you, Alfred," she beamed. "I think I'll go to the study and read for a while before checking in on Bruce."

"Very well, Miss. I shall see you when you are done."

Diana polished off the last of her yoghurt as Alfred left then rinsed her bowl clean in the sink. Afterward she made her way to the study and sat down in one of the high-backed chairs by the bookcases. The pockets of air in the cushioned leather wheezed noisily as she moved to pluck a book from the nearest shelf. It was a first edition _Moby Dick_, probably worth many tens of thousands of dollars, still in almost flawless condition despite its age.

Reverently turning the pages, Diana began to read.

"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on the shore, I thought I would sail a little and see the watery part of the world…"

Moby Dick was one of the first books she had read upon coming to Man's World and it remained amongst her favourites. She allowed herself to get lost for a while in the passages of the book, lulled by the cadence of the language, getting drawn once more into the story of Captain Ahab and his obsession with the White Whale. In a way, the whale hunter reminded her of Batman, with his single-minded pursuit of an almost unattainable goal. She could only hope that the ending for Bruce would not be as tragic.

When enough time had passed Diana carefully replaced the book then walked over to the grandfather clock. She opened the glass casing then fumbled about for a moment, trying to find the hidden switch, finally catching it with her forefinger. Damp air wafted over her as the secret passageway was revealed. With a slight flutter of anticipation she made her way downward, the click of her boots echoing loudly on the cold concrete steps.

* * *

Bruce awoke to the familiar cacophony of the bats, their jagged cries reverberating around the vaulted ceiling of the Batcave. He lay still for a moment, listening to them with his eyes closed. Over the years he had grown used to the rhythms of the colony, how the pitch and volume of their shrieks would fluctuate during the course of the day. Their current intensity likely meant it was morning and they were coming home to roost.

Autumn, he knew, was on the way. It would not be long before the bats began to hibernate, and they would eat as much as possible over the coming weeks to prepare themselves for the winter famine. It was easy to imagine them as they flew languorously through the chill air of the cavern, sated from the night-time hunt, their thin skin stretched tightly over plump bellies stuffed with insects.

Lulled by their chatter, Bruce momentarily dozed off again. When he finally woke he found himself lying in a hospital cot, staring up at the whitewashed ceiling of the Batcave infirmary, with no memory as to how he had arrived there.

He struggled to summon the events of the night before. The last thing he could recall in detail was being shot, the clarity of the burning sensation that blossomed in his leg, that exquisite agony of hot lead being driven into fragile flesh. Afterward came the rush of adrenaline, coursing through him like a drug, followed by the shivering crash as the hormone left his body. And then finally the serene release of morphine, soothing away the pain of his injury as he waited for Batgirl to come and help him.

Beyond that his memory was confused. The morphine clouded his mind, made it as though he was looking back on events through a fogged pane of glass. He remembered being picked up, cradled in strangely familiar arms, a pale and indistinct oval face hovering above him in the darkness. There was an image of a stormy sea thrashing below him, the smell of jasmine and honey strong in his nostrils.

None of which made any sense.

Unless…

Had Diana carried him home? They were the fragrances he most associated with her, the two scents melding together into a delectable whole. The last time he'd been close enough to draw them in was back on Noveria, when they'd kissed in the snow, waiting for the Eruzei to finish them off. He tried to tell himself that the idea was absurd, that it couldn't have been her; he'd radioed Barbara, not Diana, and without a League communicator there was no way she could have made contact with Wonder Woman.

And yet it wasn't easy to dismiss the nagging feeling that he was right, that Diana was indeed involved in getting him back to the Manor. She was probably up there right now, eating breakfast in the kitchen with Alfred. He wondered how long it would be before she ventured down to the cave to play nursemaid, before she became another headache for him to deal with.

_Not long enough, _he thought bitterly, shifting his body and dangling his legs over the side of the bed. He noticed a drip in his arm – a result of Alfred's tender ministrations, no doubt – and tore it out in frustration.

All in all, he felt lousy; his head ached as though he'd been drinking, and there was a dull yet persistent throbbing in his lower back, only partly eased by the strapping that ran around his midriff. His leg hurt even worse and he gingerly placed his feet on the cavern floor, at first just wiggling his toes against the rough stone surface. Gradually he put more and more weight down; the injury growled in protest then bit into him with abandon. His knee buckled slightly beneath him. Somehow he managed to remain upright, breathing sharply through his nose as he willed the wounded flesh and muscle to hold in place.

A pair of black sweat pants were hung over the chair nearest the bed. He struggled into them, cursing in frustration at how the injury made it difficult to accomplish even such a simple task. Whilst he was used to getting hurt, it was usually from when he got up close and personal with one of his Rogue's Gallery; street level injuries were thankfully few and far between, gunshot wounds particularly so. It was partly due to the armour in his suit, but mostly because of his ability to avoid even being hit in the first place. Allowing himself to be shot in the Stacked Deck by a simple gang member had been unbelievably sloppy.

The cavern floor chilled the soles of his feet as he limped his way over to a nearby basin. Splashing his face with water, he examined himself in the mirror. It was fair to say he looked like hell, his eyes drawn and bloodshot, skin veined with thick lines of tiredness.

Just as he was about to scrub the water from his face something caught the corner of his eye; a black silhouette, seemingly human in shape, standing just behind him. He stared intently into the mirror and the viscous shadows gradually resolved themselves into shades of red and green, a dirty yellow cape hanging limply behind them. A chill started to creep up his spine as the figure slowly pointed an accusing finger at him. He didn't need to see the face, still shrouded in darkness, to know that this was Robin, come to condemn him for his failure.

Batman whirled around quickly, ignoring the pain in his injured leg, but by the time he completed the movement the figure was gone.

His own breath sounded loud in his ears, harsh and rough, like that of an animal or a beast. _It was nothing,_ he told himself, trying to stay calm. _Robin is alive and he knows you're looking for him._

Gradually the sound of his breathing diminished. Once again he heard the cries of the bats, although this time there was something else alongside them: the persistent tap of approaching footsteps, growing closer and closer.

Batman closed his eyes and suppressed a growl of anger that threatened to bubble up from his throat. The gait was not Barbara's, certainly not Alfred's, so it had to be Diana. Now, when he was at his lowest, it just _had_ to be her.

Steeling himself, he turned to face Wonder Woman. His brief preparation didn't do any good: even mired in self-loathing she still managed to take his breath away, made him momentarily think there could be something else beyond the Mission.

But then, it was thinking like that which led to Tim being taken. He should have been here in Gotham, watching over the boy and making sure he was ok, not playing kissy with Diana on some frozen planet.

Before he could bark at her to leave she spoke. "How are you feeling?"

A layered question. Did she mean in his body or his spirit? Either way he was hardly at his best. "I've been shot, like some damned rookie, and Tim is still missing out there. How do you think I feel?"

Her face turned sympathetic. "I know how hard this must be for you, Bruce."

"I doubt that, Princess," he said, shaking his head, not willing to accept her pity.

"No? Have I not suffered the loss of family? Have I not also been injured by my opponents?"

He thought of her bruised and bleeding at the hands of Mongul, the anguish on her face when she was exiled from Themyscira, and though he softened somewhat he wouldn't allow his voice to show it. "It's hardly the same thing. You know your mother is alive and, more to the point, still Queen of her people. As for your injuries… well, you tend to heal quicker than us mere mortals."

Diana cocked her head to one side, regarding him. "Robin isn't dead," she said, instantly zooming in on the one key part of his diatribe, the heart of his worry. "We'll find him."

"There is no 'we', Princess," he bit back, not quite sharing her conviction – not after what he had just seen in the mirror, whatever it was – and hating himself for it. "I told you before: this is family business. And no matter how much you might want to play the role of mommy Bat, you're not family."

Diana's face flushed at the insult, eyes flashing dangerously. "You think I want to help you just so I can crawl into your bed, Bruce? You should know me better than that."

He sighed, regretting the comment but not apologising for it. "Be that as it may, it just wouldn't work, Princess."

She lifted her perfect chin, making her expression proud, almost haughty – and, dare he say it, ever so slightly sexy. "We worked together well enough when I rescued you last night."

"Last night?" Batman growled, quelling the stir of attraction. "You want to talk about last night? How you blundered in on me in the Deck, distracted me from what I was doing, allowed my enemies to get the drop on me?"

"That's not what happened and you know it!" Diana answered angrily.

"Don't I, Princess? Things were perfectly under control until you arrived," Bruce replied, turning away from her, back toward the now-empty mirror.

"In control?" she replied, shaking her head sadly. "I think that's the last thing you are at the moment." She moved forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Bruce, I can tell you're hurting. We're your friends. Let us help you with this."

Her touch was strong yet tender, the warmth of her palm seeping into his skin. It was almost enough to make him change his mind, to acquiesce to her offer of assistance.

Almost.

"It's _because_ of you and the League that this happened in the first place," he said harshly, summoning up the willpower to shrug off her hand. "I've been spending too much time away from Gotham, become too reliant on having super-powered beings around as a crutch to lean on. If I'd been here, rather than on some frozen planet in the middle of the damned galaxy, then Tim wouldn't have been out on patrol on his own, he wouldn't have been vulnerable, and he wouldn't have been taken."

Diana narrowed her eyes and he could clearly see the anger that was glowing behind them. "Fine," she said eventually, mastering her emotions with a deep breath. "But I am sick and tired of you lashing out at me for trying to help." With that she turned on her heel. "I _won't _make the same mistake again."

She leapt into the air, intent on departing from the cave as quickly as possible. Part of him wanted to shout at her to stop, to get her to turn round so he could say that, yes, he did want her help, he would _always _want her help, for as long as he had years left to give her. But the larger parts of him, the Bat and the Playboy, sneered in turn that she was dangerous to the Mission, that there were plenty more fish in the sea, that he should just let her leave.

And he did as they bid him, watching her departing form as he stumbled over to the Cray supercomputer. He fell into the high-backed chair as she flew from the cave. His head slumped into his hands and he sat, engrossed in his own misery, failing to hear Alfred as he approached some time later.

The butler announced himself with a polite cough. "I've brought you some refreshments, Master Bruce," he said, before sniffing the air theatrically. "And might I suggest you take a shower after eating."

Bruce turned his chair to see Alfred stood[C9] with a tray of sandwiches in one hand, a pitcher of iced mineral water in the other. His stomach growled deeply at the sight. Realising just how hungry he was he gave a brief nod to the Englishman, who set the tray down next to him. He poured himself a glass of water and selected a couple of sandwiches before turning back toward the Supercomputer. He devoured the sandwiches hungrily then chugged down the water, the cool liquid easing the scratching sensation that had gathered at the back of his throat.

To avoid Alfred's cool gaze, Bruce returned the glass without looking away from the monitor screen. Only when he heard the unexpected clink of glass on glass did he turn. There on the tray beside his glass was a second, upturned and unused.

A glass intended for Diana.

It explained why Alfred was still hovering around him, a disapproving look on his face. He chose to employ a typical Batman tactic and ignored the butler, swinging his chair back to the supercomputer and silently tapping away at the keyboard.

"I saw Miss Diana as she exited the study just now," Alfred said eventually, his voice taut with displeasure. "She seemed…in a hurry."

"Did she?" The flow of his typing slowed momentarily then picked up again, the only sign that what Alfred had said affected him.

The Englishman waited for his young master to say something further. When he did not, the butler regarded Bruce sternly.

"I do trust that you didn't upset Miss Diana too much?"

Bruce grunted in annoyance. "I don't need her help finding Tim." Without directly answering Alfred, the response made it clear to the butler that, yes, he had upset her, had even been downright rude to her.

Behind him he heard the Englishman sigh in frustration. "If I might be so bold, sir, there is no weakness in accepting help from others, especially when it is freely offered and with the best of intentions. There is however, a weakness in not accepting help when needed: the weakness of pride. I do hope that this won't cause you to keep pushing Miss Diana away."

The accusation stung a little, but only because it was partly true. Yet what was he without the arrogance of the Bat, the ironclad certainty of his actions? "We fix our own problems in Gotham, Alfred." His tone was terse and dismissive enough to let the butler know that his services were no longer required.

"Very good, sir." The inflection in Alfred's voice made it clear that he thought such a notion anything but good. But the older man knew better than to debate with Batman when he was in such a black mood, so he reluctantly made his way out of the cave, his firm steps loud at first on the raw stone, then growing quieter and quieter until at last he was gone, leaving Batman sitting in front of the supercomputer with only the bats and the darkness.

Bruce felt unexpectedly alone, like the little boy he had once been, lost in an alley, crying over the bodies of his murdered parents. He shivered and a sudden memory came to him, of a withered old man sitting hunched in front of this same computer many years hence, his quest for vengeance washed away by the unforgiving river of time, leaving only what was left beneath: loneliness and bitterness and guilt.

Was this, he wondered, what he was destined to become? That twisted version of himself he had met upon being catapulted into the future by Chronos?

Overhead the bats screeched again, their discordant voices his only answer.

A confirmation if ever he'd heard one.


	7. Intervention

**Chapter Seven: Intervention**

Alfred dozed as his train crawled its way west, travelling so slowly that it seemed he would never arrive at his destination. Outside the late summer sky was low and heavy, the weather colder than it should have been, and his hot breath created a kaleidoscope of mist on the glass window of the dreary carriage as it rumbled along.

Eventually they ground to a jerking halt in a herd of other trains, great metal beasts penned together outside the main terminus for Blüdhaven, waiting impatiently for the backlog of passengers and cargo to clear. When the numbers had been sufficiently thinned they resumed their slow progress, shepherded onward by a complicated pattern of lights and signals, before at last they were pulling into Blüdhaven Central Station. A couple more staccato hops of the carriage juddered his bones as they drew level with the platform.

Alfred stepped off the train amongst a press of bodies and elbows, the weary commuters jockeying one another for position as they returned from their daily pilgrimage to Gotham. He cast a critical eye about himself as he left the platform. To say Blüdhaven Central Station was bland would have been an understatement. It was little more than a concrete vault, stripped of all character and feeling, much like the city itself. Where Gotham at least had a heritage of gothic architecture, mixed together with a new wave of soaring, modernist structures full of glass and light, Blüdhaven was industrial to its core, filled with drab buildings that thrust upward through plains of grey asphalt.

It quickly proved impossible to find a taxi in the throng outside the station so Alfred opted to walk instead. He didn't know Blüdhaven all that well, his previous visits having generally been confined to the district around Master Richard's apartment. The city had an ugly reputation as the violent younger brother of Gotham, a grim place full of belching factories and crumbling infrastructure, where trash fires from the municipal landfill spewed forth enough contaminants to burn your eyes, and the people were as harsh as the Atlantic winds whipping in from the sea.

The sun was starting to slip below the horizon and the temperature dropped quickly alongside it, so Alfred buttoned up his thick woollen coat in response. He would need to make haste if he was to get back to Gotham before Master Bruce noticed he was missing. Not, of course, that his employer was noticing much of anything at the moment. For the past two days he had been cloistered in the unquenchable shadows of the Batcave, his misery and guilt and anger piling atop one another, deepening like a coastal shelf.

Rather than wander aimlessly in what he hoped was the approximate direction of the docks, Alfred pulled out his WayneTech 2100 smartphone, thumbing through the list of apps until he found WayneMaps. He squinted at the screen then began to plot his way toward the area he most expected Master Richard to be patrolling.

He followed this route for perhaps twenty minutes before realising he was being stalked.

A sudden bout of intuition, the merest prickling between his shoulder blades, made him glance behind himself. He caught site of two men, about thirty yards back, staring at him with hungry eyes. One was black, the other white, both of them skinny and feral looking. Drug users, if he was any judge. They were taking in the iPhone, the expensive clothes, a general demeanour that smacked of wealth and privilege, and no doubt reckoned the frail old man they saw an easy mark.

_All the better_, he thought as he quickened his pace slightly. They would certainly help him attract Master Richard's attention. And if not, he still remembered enough moves from his time in the Secret Service to deal with a couple of tweaking street punks.

Alfred risked another look behind, saw that he had pulled far enough ahead of the would-be muggers for them to start trotting to catch up with him. The mouth of an alleyway appeared to his right and at the last moment he ducked into it. He stood a short distance inside, waiting next to a couple of overflowing trash cans. His pursuers rounded the corner a few moments later, puffing and out of breath, their eyes flashing with satisfaction as they saw he was cornered.

One of the pair grinned a broken smile full of rotten teeth. "Just hand over your wallet and phone, old man," he said. "We don't want no trouble."

Alfred pulled back his shoulders and looked at him defiantly. "Then I would advise you to turn around and walk away," he replied, summoning his most imperious British accent.

Rotten-teeth snorted in amusement. "Have it your way, limey."

They closed on him quickly, confident in their advantage over him. The black one came first, making a clumsy lunge toward Alfred. The butler jumped nimbly backward and picked up one of the trash can lids by the handle, smashing it into the face of his attacker. The man let out a howl and stumbled backward. Blood streamed from his ruined nose as he brought a hand up to his face.

"You boke by doze!" he accused, his eyes filled with disbelief.

Alfred said nothing. He had used up the advantage of surprise; they would not be so careless second time around.

"You shouldn't have done that, old man," said rotten-teeth, pulling a long, rusty knife from his belt. "I'm gonna enjoy gutting you like a fish."

Alfred backed away as he saw the knife, holding the trash can in front of him like a shield. The mugger followed after him with confident steps, making the occasional feint with his blade. His companion stooped down to pick up a broken half-brick and moved out to the left, trying to outflank Alfred, his other hand still clasped over his broken nose.

The butler dared a quick glance up at the surrounding rooftops. They were empty. Where exactly _was_ Master Richard?

"No place to run to, you limey bastard," taunted rotten-teeth, mistaking Alfred's look upward for a panicked attempt to find an escape route.

It was easy to see why the man was so confident. Flight was no longer an option for Alfred. Nor would it be long before he ran out of alley, his back literally pressed against the wall. With no room to manoeuvre he would become easy pickings. He breathed deeply, summoning up long unused skills as the muggers continued to stalk him. He would have to fight, and soon.

His decision made, a certain calm descended on Alfred. Time seemed to slow for him. He watched as there was a subtle, almost imperceptible nod exchanged between the two muggers. The one on the left drew back his arm and made ready to fling his brick. Alfred had all the time in the world to throw the lid of his trash can like a discus, catching the man square in the face. His already injured nose shattered under the impact and he fell backwards, knocked-out cold.

With an angry shot Rotten-teeth charged toward him, knife extended outwards. He was just a few steps away and Alfred wasn't sure that he could avoid the blow. He braced himself to receive a slashing cut or worse. But at the last moment there was a whirling sound in the air, followed by a dull thud, and his attacker slumped to the ground as an eskrima stick smacked against the back of his skull.

Alfred bent over double in relief. He watched from the corner of his eye as Nightwing jumped down from a nearby rooftop, landing nimbly next to the prone form of the broken-nosed mugger.

Dick kicked the blood-spattered trash can lid. "Nice throw."

"Yes, well, all those years spent as opening seam bowler for the Bullingdon Cricket Club certainly gave me a good arm."

"Heh, I remember when you tried to teach me cricket in the garden. I never could get my head around the rules." Nightwing shook his head as his eyes twinkled at the memory.

"Yes, I seem to recall you and Master Bruce always holding the cricket bat upwards, as though you were playing baseball. Rather easy to bowl you both out as a result, I'm afraid. In any respect, I'm glad you found me in the end, Master Richard." Alfred glanced down at the curved knife for emphasis.

Nightwing looked somewhat sheepish and rubbed at the back of his head, a self-conscious gesture that Alfred recognised from the boys childhood. Normally it meant he was about to admit to doing something naughty. "Well, truth be told, Babs gave me the heads up on you ages ago. I've been following your progress since you left the station. I was gonna intervene earlier, but then you picked that trash can lid up and were like 'bam!' in that guys face – awesome move, by the way – and it looked like you were kinda having fun."

Alfred quirked an eyebrow in response. "I wouldn't exactly call it fun."

"Well, I guess it's what passes for fun amongst members of our peculiar little family," the younger man replied with a shrug. "Speaking of which, if you wanted to talk to me you could have just called, y'know."

"I needed to see you in person, Master Richard."

"It's about Bruce then." The younger man made a face. "Must be bad if you've come to me."

"Worse than you can imagine," agreed Alfred, looking around the dank confines of the alley. "But perhaps there are more… salubrious surroundings where we could continue our discussion?"

"Of course, though I wouldn't say I'm really dressed for a special occasion." Dick waved a theatrical hand over the blue eagle emblazoned on the front of his jumpsuit. "There's a diner just round the corner to the left. I have a cache not too far from here, so let me get changed and I'll come meet you."

"Very well, I'll see you there shortly."

Nightwing kneeled down by the rotten-toothed mugger and bound his hands behind his back. "Yep, I'll deal with these two then see you there in a bit."

Alfred walked past Dick as the younger man radioed the Blüdhaven Police Department, letting them know the location of the two criminals. He quickly turned left and saw the sign for the diner pretty much straight away. It was a classic all-American affair, filled with red and white booths and chrome bar stools, rounded off by a bell above the door that chimed as he entered. Surprisingly clean, given this was Blüdhaven. He sat down in a cubicle near one of the windows and took in the menu. The food screamed of the states – bacon and eggs sat on the breakfast menu alongside waffles and pancakes. Huge portions of fries and milkshakes accompanied burgers topped with cheese, bacon and a variety of condiments.

All in all, he didn't hold out much hope of the place selling him a cup of tea.

It didn't take long for the waitress to approach him. She was short and severe, with her mousy hair pulled back in a tight bun. He asked her for two coffees plus some pancakes with maple syrup. The woman scribbled down the order with alacrity and the drinks arrived promptly, the food coming not long afterward. Alfred couldn't help but find himself admiring the efficiency of her service from a professional standpoint.

A couple of minutes later the bell tinkled again and presently Dick was sitting on the leather sofa opposite him, dressed casually in a pair of black jogging slacks and a grey hooded top. His eyes lit up as he took in the pancakes.

"Alfred, you sly old dog, I do believe you're trying to bribe me." He cut into the pancakes with abandon then shoved a large forkful into his mouth. "Sho far I haff to admit ish working."

"Master Richard, what have I told you about talking with your mouthful?"

Blüdhaven's protector, scourge of countless villains, looked suitably chastised as he swallowed his food. "Sorry," he shrugged. "You know how much I love pancakes."

"Indeed I do, young sir, indeed I do."

Alfred briefly thought back on happier times, when Dick was still a young man and barely in his teens. He was so full of life, a bundle of inquisitive energy, eager to please Master Bruce in his endeavours, both at school and on the streets of Gotham. He used to delight in having Master Richard in the kitchen with him on Sunday mornings. The boy would always try to help – but usually inadvertently hinder – in preparing the traditional Wayne family brunch of pancakes and bacon.

It was sad to see how far the relationship between him and Bruce had fallen.

The last time he had made the trip to Blüdhaven was for Master Richard's birthday, dropping off the obligatory present and card. Bruce hadn't even bothered to accompany him, citing obligations in Gotham as his excuse. He remembered the look of hurt on the young man's face when he opened the door to his apartment, only to realise his adoptive father was absent. It was fleeting and well-masked – no surprise really, given he had learnt to hide his emotions from the best – but it had been there nonetheless.

Even after all this time, with everything that had passed between them, Dick still loved Bruce enough to be hurt by his coldness.

But then, was that really so surprising? For all of his shortcomings as a role model and a father, Bruce and Tim were all the boy had left in the way of family.

_Just like they're all you've got left, old man._

"So what do you want me for?" Dick asked when he finished his pancakes. "The boss made it pretty clear he didn't want my help looking for Tim after that first night."

Alfred sighed, stirring his coffee before answering. "I wouldn't take it personally, Master Richard. You know as well as I do how much he hates showing weakness, and all the more so to those that are close to him."

"Well, it's difficult not to see it as personal when he still has Barbara out on patrol with him. He hasn't refused her, has he?"

"With all due respect, she never left Gotham. Having her aid him in the search is simply part of the status quo, whilst having you return from Blüdhaven is not. Ergo, Master Bruce sees accepting your help as a weakness on his part."

Dick grunted in response, taking a moment to assess what Alfred had said. "Suppose I agree with you," he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Why does that change anything? Why would he agree to my help now?"

"No doubt you've heard from Barbara that Master Bruce has been injured?" When the younger man nodded in agreement Alfred continued. "Well, what you probably don't know is that he has hardly left the cave this past week, and barely eaten to boot. He is…wallowing, Master Richard. There is no other way to describe it. Wallowing in his own self-pity, first of all for leading you and Master Tim and Miss Barbara down this path, then for what he perceives as failing you all. Add to that the fact he has driven Miss Diana away again, perhaps for the last time, and for once he hasn't the slightest idea how to fix things. I have not seen him so bereft since he came home from that damnable cinema wrapped in a policeman's coat." The butler shook his head in sadness. "He desperately needs help, but he is the person least of all equipped to ask for it."

Even as he spoke, Alfred could see the walls of ill-feeling start to crumble away from Master Richard.

"I… I didn't know he'd fallen so far down the well, Alfred. Even with everything that's gone on between us, I still respect him. Love him even, though of course I'd never tell him as much. Everything I did, everything I've done, was of my choosing, not Bruce's. Sure, he gave me the training and the resources, but it was me that opted to use them." Nightwing raised his chin to look Alfred square in the eye. "And he never failed me. Not even once. I know that now."

"Then tell him as much." Alfred spoke passionately, reaching across the table to clasp the younger man's hands in his own, a most un-English act of physical connection. "He needs to hear it from you most of all."

Nightwing looked down at his hands, held in Alfred's own, before raising his gaze back up to the Butler. He nodded briefly in assent. "Of course. I'll do whatever I can." With that the young vigilante pulled away, breaking their hold and somehow lessening the intensity of their conversation. Once again he rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. "But how exactly are we gonna do this, ummm, intervention? I don't think I can just waltz back into the cave and act like nothing has happened."

"You needn't worry about that, Master Richard," Alfred replied, smiling mischievously. "I do, of course, have a plan."

* * *

A blue icon tracked across the gigantic monitor screen of the Cray supercomputer. It was a crude graphical representation, little more than a few pixels banded together in the shape of a car, zoomed in so closely that the whole design looked as though it was fraying at the edges. Above it a designation in bold, black lettering: GCPD 412. The vehicle danced across the screen, passing by other icons of differing shapes and size, eventually joining up with its twin, another blue car bearing the designation GCPD 127.

Batman panned out the view, revealing hundreds of symbols shifting over a digital map of Gotham. They moved in a silent cacophony of colour, each of the icons indicating some item or event of strategic importance in the city. Blue designated the police, with the shape of the symbol showing if they were on foot, in a patrol car or airborne. Red was for a crime in progress, orange for persons of interest, gold for allies and affiliates of the bat-clan, green for known super-criminals. The list went on and on, as many shapes and colours as there were differing threats and allies in Gotham.

He zoomed the screen in once more, centring on a seething cluster of red and blue icons. In the midst of the melee sat another icon: a circular bat-logo, black over yellow.

He watched intently as the two blue cars converged on the melee then pressed the comms button on the computer. "Two more GCPD Cruisers en route to your location, Batgirl."

It had taken a little over a week for crime to return to similar levels prior to his blitz on Gotham. As with all things, it had started out by degrees: a mugging here, an assault there. When Batman failed to swoop down on the perpetrators and exact instant retribution, the rumour that the Dark Knight was no longer in the city spread through the Gotham underworld like wildfire. Muggers and thieves, gang-bangers and con-men, flooded back out onto the streets, desperate to make up for lost time. Inevitably the bigger creatures of crime followed in their wake, bringing with them the death and misery that characterised their grisly trade.

"Roger that. What about SWAT?" He could hear the crackle of gunfire and the howling of police sirens as Batgirl spoke. "The cops are getting creamed down here."

Barbara currently found herself positioned in the midst of a vicious three-way gun battle between the GCPD and soldiers from the Maroni and Dimitrov mobs. In the last few days the long-standing enmity between the two families had boiled over into open warfare. When two sets of their goons ran into one another on the Upper East Side a furious firefight had instantly erupted. Two nearby GCPD cruisers responded and from there the whole situation had escalated rapidly, with two cops dead and a score injured.

"No SWAT units for now; Brother Eye shows the bulk of them tied up on the other side of the city, dealing with a robbery at the First National Bank of Gotham."

He had first dubbed the monitoring system 'Brother Eye' following its creation some months ago and the name had since stuck. Based on a facial and number plate recognition program initially devised by Lucius Fox, the software had been heavily altered by Batman, before being fed into the CCTV cameras dotted throughout Gotham. Now it provided him with a near real-time map of events in the city. Some black spots remained, particularly in poorer districts with fewer cameras, but he had done some preliminary work on linking the system with WayneTech Satellites and remained confident that such areas would soon be eliminated.

"Two more cruisers just isn't going to cut it," answered batgirl, the gunfire louder and more persistent through the comm-channel. "The cops are heavily outgunned. I'm not sure – RPG! RPG!" A second later an ear-shattering explosion tore through the speakers.

For a moment the connection dropped out. When it resumed all Batman could hear was the staccato rattle of automatic weapons-fire and the panicked screams of the injured.

"Batgirl, report." Nothing. He felt a trembling in his arms and looked down to find he was gripping the edge of the keyboard. "Batgirl? Batgirl!" Much as he tried, he couldn't keep a slight quiver of panic from creeping into his voice. "Barbara…"

Numbly, he pressed at the keys before him, his mind reeling as he zoomed in on the angry knot of red and blue dots. As he watched, one of the patrol car graphics flickered and died, destroyed by the rocket. Next to it the Bat-logo remained still and unmoving.

_First Dick_, he thought, _then Tim and Diana. Now Barbara. Am I destined to lose everyone close to me?_

As if in answer he heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him. Alfred, moving through the cave, a little more noisily than usual. Even if he lost everyone else, he would never be truly alone whilst the Englishman was by his side.

He kept his attention riveted on the monitor as the butler continued his slow and steady approach, all the while willing the bat-logo to show some sign of life. Alfred must have been carrying a tray; there was the soft tinkling of metal as he set it down on one of the nearby work benches. The rich aroma of hot chocolate wafted to him over the earthy dampness of the cave.

"Master Bruce, I'm delighted to say we have a v—" Alfred paused mid-sentence as he noticed Bruce's taut posture. "Is something wrong, sir?"

"It's… it's Barbara, Alfred…"

"Miss Barbara?" The concern in the Englishman's voice was audible. "Is she alright?"

It was then that the communicator crackled back into life and the next thing Bruce knew Barbara was speaking in his ear. "Batman, are you there?" She sounded flustered and out of breath, but otherwise unharmed.

"Yes," he answered, relief flooding through him. "Yes, I'm here."

"Sorry, the explosion must have knocked out my comms for a sec." Barbara paused as she surveyed the scene around her. "It's absolute carnage here… One of the Dimitrov soldiers just took out a GCPD Cruiser with a rocket launcher, numerous cop casualties."

Batman hesitated for a split second and then his fingers were flying across the keyboard, accessing information provided by the Brother Eye database. "Priority is to get the goon with the rocket launcher," he said, a crisp authority returning to his voice. "According to facial recognition the perp is one Luka Djordjevic, a Serb who works as hired muscle for the Dimitrov's. Tough, but slow; he's got a shrapnel wound in his right knee from doing military service in Bosnia." With a click of a button he pulled up another file, this time with the schematics for the building. "The warehouse they're holed up in has a ventilation system that drops down into the room he fired from, you should be able to gain access to it from the roof."

"Ok, I'm on it."

The bat-logo started to move across the screen, tracing a careful circuitous route to the warehouse. Alfred stepped forward quietly, hovering over his shoulder as they both stared at the slow progress of the icon.

"I take it this means Miss Barbara is ok?"

Batman nodded once in response, still tapping away at the keyboard in front of him, trying to reconcile the barrage of emotion he had just experienced: the misery of believing Barbara was dead, then the elation of hearing her voice.

"Well that's a relief," said Alfred, with customary understatement. Bruce felt rather than saw the butler turn his head to regard him. "I see you've put the costume back on, sir. It's certainly an improvement on the jogging pants and sweat tops you've been favouring this past week."

"It helps me to focus. Crime has come back with a vengeance so I need to concentrate on where to send Batgirl."

"Indeed, sir." The butler moved back toward the tray and in response Batman turned his high-backed chair to face him. "Do you wish to talk about what just happened, Master Bruce?"

"Nothing happened, Alfred."

"No, but you _thought_ something did."

Batman pursed his lips. "There's nothing to talk about." Certainly not the feeling of fear and guilt he experienced when he thought Barbara had been injured - or worse.

"Very well." With a flourish, the butler neatly presented a silver platter, replete with two steaming cups of cocoa. "I've brought you some hot chocolate. There are marshmallows and extra chocolate syrup, if you desire them."

"I'm not a child having a nightmare anymore, Alfred."

"No, you're not," the butler agreed, his expression sad. Reluctantly he set the platter back atop the workbench. "But then, I haven't seen you this pained since you _were_ a child, sir."

Bruce frowned. It wasn't often that Alfred reminded him of the long nights of his childhood. "Maybe not," he conceded. "But how am I supposed to feel?"

"I'm not saying you aren't allowed to feel like this," said Alfred. "Most parents would, were their child to be missing."

He felt a pang of guilt then, remembering the numerous times when Alfred had thought him dead. "I'm not much of a parent," he said, shaking his head as he focused his attention back to the monitor. When he spoke again his voice was bitter. "I've failed them, Alfred. Dick, Tim, Barbara. I've trapped them in this life, and all they'll get out of it is misery and pain."

Batman was expecting Alfred to respond, so when another voice spoke in his stead he barely managed to contain his surprise. "Trapped us? That's a load of crap, Bruce, and you know it."

He turned his chair around slowly, using the time to gather himself. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a costumed Nightwing step out from the shadows to the rear of the cave. So _that_ was why Alfred had been so uncharacteristically noisy earlier; he'd been covering up Nightwing's approach.

Alfred spread his hands apologetically. "Master Bruce, I was just about to say that we had a visitor prior to the – ahem – interruption with Miss Barbara."

Bruce ignored the butler, instead choosing to focus his ire on Nightwing. "You've certainly got a lot quieter when it comes to sneaking around. Even the bats didn't notice you this time."

"Well, I've had a lot of time to practice in Blüdhaven," shrugged Dick. "It's kind of forced me to get better."

Batman said nothing, just kept a cool gaze on the younger man, trying to intimidate him with the force of his glare. "What brings you to Gotham, Nightwing?" he asked eventually.

"Well, old Alfred here," said Dick, clapping the Englishman on the shoulder, "tells me you've been moping around feeling sorry for yourself, _Batman_. From what I've just heard, seems he was right."

"A servant," Batman said, shooting an evil glare at Alfred, "should know his place."

He was just about to turn back toward Nightwing when he frowned slightly. There was something about Alfred, his expression and posture, that wasn't quite right. So he kept his gaze on the Englishman. He certainly looked suitably aghast at what Dick was saying, but there was some strange dynamic going on between these two that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Batman concentrated, trying to piece together exactly what was wrong, only to find himself interrupted when an irritated Nightwing cut across his vision.

"Don't you talk to Alfred like that," said Dick, arms folded across his chest in a gesture of annoyance. "He's only trying to do what's best for you."

Alfred gently placed an arm across the chest of the younger man, pushing him out of the way. "No, Master Richard, you have no need to intercede on my behalf." He turned to face Bruce. "When I left Butlering School, sir, I had one final piece of invaluable advice handed down to me by Ponsonby, my old finishing master. He told me that you must always – _always_ – do what is right for the Master and his household, even if it occasionally means going against his wishes."

Batman stared at the two of them, a defiant Alfred and resentful Nightwing. Is this how they thought they were going to help him? By marching into the cave and trying to perform some botched intervention on his behalf? The muscles in his jaw twitched underneath his skin. "You both have the temerity to come down here uninvited and lecture me on what's best for me, what my wishes should be?" His voice was as sharp as cut glass. "In this instance they're one and the same thing: for the two of you to leave."

He turned his chair back toward the monitor screen, trying to concentrate on the task at hand. He noted with satisfaction that Batgirl had nearly reached her destination. There was just one more building left for her to cross before she was on the roof of the warehouse.

Behind him he could almost hear Nightwing seething with anger. "Is that it? What about all that melodramatic crap about failing me? About trapping us in this life?"

"You weren't supposed to hear any of that, Dick." An edge of weariness crept into his voice as he used the younger man's name for the first time.

"But the fact is I did, Bruce." Dick strode forward till he was level with Batman's shoulder. "And I hate to break it to you, but Babs and Tim and me, we chose this life. You didn't force us into it."

Bruce sighed in response, rubbing at his eyes. "Please, you were – are – children. I brainwashed you into believing that what I was doing was right."

Nightwing tensed beside him, visibly bristling at being labelled a child. "I'm twenty four years old, Bruce! These days I'm a grown man with a mind of my own. If I wanted to stop doing this tomorrow, I'd quit, believe me. So you can let go of all this ridiculous guilt you've been hoarding up for yourself and start letting me help you."

Batman's expression hardened beneath the cowl. Who did Dick think he was, to lecture him about guilt? He turned his head to regard the younger man, noting the conflicting mixture of anger and compassion that moved behind his eyes. He wasn't sure which of the two he disliked the most. "What makes you think I want your help, Dick?"

Before Nightwing had a chance to form an answer Batman's communicator buzzed in his ear. He held up his hand for silence, noting with satisfaction how Dick bit back on his response, then pressed a finger to his ear.

"Batgirl to Batman," said Barbara. "Djordjevic is down. What do you want me to do next?"

Without a second thought he focused his attention back on the monitor screen. He zoomed in on the bat-logo and the building it was contained within. Brother Eye had identified twelve other Dimitrov soldiers in the building, all of them heavily armed, but now out of view of any cameras. With itchy trigger fingers and no solid intel on their positions it would be too risky to send Barbara in alone against them.

Dick, watching over his shoulder, had obviously reached a similar conclusion. "How long till SWAT are on the scene?"

Batman briefly switched channels on his comm-link. "GCPD scanners are saying at least forty-five minutes."

"I can be there in twenty on the bike," Dick stated matter-of-factly.

Bruce paused, weighing up the options. Could he accept Dick's help? Could he ignore all that had happened between them? Perhaps it was lack of sleep, the injury that rendered him impotent, or a genuine concern for Barbara which made him consign all the harsh words and angry exchanges to the past. Whatever it was, he found himself agreeing to the request.

"Fine," he growled, pressing the button on his commlink. "Batgirl, hold in place. Nightwing is coming to support you, ETA 20 minutes."

"Dick? What on earth is –" Batman cut the link abruptly, irked by the sound of surprise in Batgirl's voice. Her inevitable questions could wait for later.

He reached into his utility belt and pulled out a small black disc with a bat-logo stamped on it. He turned the communicator over in his hands for a second then threw it to Dick, who caught it with practiced ease.

Nightwing placed the device in his ear. "Don't think this means I'm giving up on Blüdhaven," he said, staring Bruce in the eye. "My obligation to that city still comes first."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. Let's consider this more of a working partnership than a full on merger."

"Cool, that works for me."

Batman pushed himself up from the chair, moving over to the nearby workbench, still limping slightly as he walked. "Do you need any gear?"

"Ummm…" Nightwing rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment. "Despite the costume I travelled light, so some smoke pellets would be good. Y'know, given the tactical situation."

He gathered the requested items then handed them to Dick. An awkward silence grew between them till the younger man blurted out "How's the leg?"

"Let's not get all warm and fuzzy. Just get in, get out, get the job done safely."

"Don't worry, safety is my middle name," Nightwing replied irreverently, throwing in a mock salute for good measure. He spoke over his shoulder as he made his way out of the cave. "I'll be back with Babs before you know it."

Batman glared stonily after his protégé's retreating form, watching his lithe progress through the cave. Could the boy not take anything seriously?

Behind him Alfred discretely moved the platter he had been carrying, reminding him of his presence. "The hot chocolate has gone cold, sir," the butler observed. "Would you like me to warm it up for you?"

Batman grunted something non-committal in response, his eyes still on Nightwing as he darted up the steps leading to the secret entrance.

"If I may, sir, I do believe that Master Richard's attempts at humour are his way of dealing with stressful situations," said Alfred, moving up until he was level with Batman's shoulder. "Not everyone is as stoic as yourself."

He softened slightly, recognising the truth behind the words. "I suppose so, Alfred. And no, thank you, I don't need the hot chocolate to be heated up." He reached toward a flask of coffee sat next to the supercomputer. "I already have a drink."

Alfred made a face. "That's not the horrible instant stuff you make for yourself, is it?"

A smile twitched at the corner of Batman's lips as he poured himself a cup of the thick black liquid. "It is. I made it to industrial strength this time. Care to try some?"

"Not for all the tea in China, sir."

He drank the cup down quickly. It tasted like coffee flavoured paint stripper and he winced slightly as the harsh burn of it slid down his throat.

Alfred quirked an eyebrow at the expression of displeasure on his face. "Hit the spot I take it?"

Batman grinned in response. "Certainly did. I feel like a new man already."

"Excellent, sir. Well, in the spirit of being a new man, now that things have been patched up somewhat with Master Richard, might I suggest we discuss the other relationship that's vexing you?"

The smile fell off Bruce's face as quickly as it had arrived. "And who might you be referring to?" he asked, despite already knowing the answer.

"Why, Princess Diana, of course."

"Direct and to the point, eh, Alfred?"

"I find the simplest plans are often the most effective."

Batman turned away from the butler, not wanting to look him in the eye as he spoke. "What are you trying to get me to admit about Diana, Alfred? That I'd like us to be more than colleagues? That I feel something for her?" He gripped the edge of the Supercomputer console. "You know I can't allow emotion to distract me from the Mission."

"With due respect, sir, that's complete and utter poppycock," Alfred said forcibly. "Plant-people notwithstanding, I believe I have seen you in love at least three times before." The butler raised three fingers on his hand then ticked off the names in order. "Miss Beaumont, Miss Kyle, and Miss Talia."

"Talia al Ghul was never love," Batman replied, shaking his head. "Just a brief and almost deadly infatuation. As for the other two, you're just proving my point. Look at how those relationships ended."

"I would agree with you that love can be fleeting, sir, and sometimes badly chosen. It can be poorly directed at people who can't - or won't - love us return. And even if we are lucky enough to find someone who feels the same way, sometimes love burns so hot that it winds up destroying itself. Other times the flames simply cool down and die over time." The butler paused briefly before continuing. "The question isn't whether or not you love Miss Diana, Master Bruce. It's whether or not you can live without her."

"Of course I can live without her. What do you think I've been doing all these years?"

"Is this living, Master Bruce?" Alfred spread his arms wide to take in the shadows of the cave. "Is it? If your parents, God rest their souls, were here to ask, what do you think they'd say?"

"Leave my parents out of this!" Batman snarled. He rounding on the butler, but the look of profound sadness that Alfred wore on his face gave him pause in his anger.

"Please do not misunderstand me, Master Bruce," the butler began. "I have never subscribed to the view that your parents would be ashamed of what you do. Your methods might be different to theirs, but you both fought to make Gotham a better place. Indeed, I believe you honour their memory with your struggles. That is why I have helped you in this endeavour from the beginning, and it is why I will continue to help you." He moved forward, looking Bruce in the eye. "But they would not be happy for the Mission to be the sum of your existence. They would want you to have a life beyond the cape. A life with someone who loves you in return, as your mother loved your father, and he loved her."

Batman couldn't stand the look of sorrow in Alfred's gaze, so he broke away from the butler, turning to the workbench set nearest the supercomputer. Picking up his utility belt, he turned it over in his hands. "But this is what I am, Alfred. The cape and the cowl and the belt."

"No. That is what you _do_. And what we do doesn't make us who we are."

Bruce continued to turn the utility belt end over end. He thought of Diana, how he was always pushing her away, testing the limits of her affection. This time, he wasn't sure if he'd pushed too far: the coldness in her eyes when she'd last looked at him burned him all the way down to his soul.

Finally he stopped twisting the belt. He sighed deeply and turned back toward Alfred.

"Even if what you say is right, I don't know how to fix things. Not with Diana. She has a way of throwing me for a loop."

"Love will do that, sir."

"I never said it was love, Alfred."

"You didn't need to," replied the butler, a brief flicker of a smile returning to his face. "As for how to fix things, might I suggest accepting her recent offer of help as a starting point?"

Batman carelessly threw the belt back on to the workbench as he considered a response to Alfred's suggestion. It tinkled slightly as it landed, the distinctive chime of glass knocking against glass, and he watched with surprise as a pair of test tubes rolled free from one of the compartments.

After the shooting and the ensuing events he had more or less forgotten about the samples taken from Lar, Mo and Cur in the Stacked Deck. Indeed, he'd more or less dismissed them as a viable lead. It was clear enough from his interrogation that they held no real idea as to Joker's current whereabouts; they'd last dealt with him some months ago, on yet another madcap scheme gone awry.

Still, it wouldn't do any harm to double check things. He popped open the samples and inserted them in the analysis chamber, then keyed in the relevant sequence before turning back toward Alfred.

The butler wore an expectant look on his face.

"Very well, Alfred," Bruce said, inclining his head slightly as he spoke. "I'll see if I can persuade Diana to come to Gotham and help us look for Tim."

Alfred beamed at the words. "That's excellent news, sir," he said, picking up the serving platter filled with the now-cold hot chocolate. "Now if you'll excuse me, I had best get back up to the manor and start preparing dinner for you."

The butler stepped forward, intent on leaving the cave, but pulled up short when the tinny robotic voice of the super-computer sparked into life.

"Compound analysed. Compound analysed. Compound analysed."

Batman turned back toward the monitor in surprise. The analysis had come back far quicker than he expected. He stepped over to the vast machine and pressed a button upon the console, silencing the robotic voice. The Brother Eye map dissolved gradually, replaced instead by a series of three-dimensional molecules, the layout of which made every muscle in his body tense.

"No… it can't be…" he whispered, hitting the button once again.

Behind him Alfred dropped the serving platter in shock, the metallic clang of it echoing loudly in the darkness of the cave.

"Oh my, Master Bruce!"

The letters glowed fiercely on the screen, spelling out the name of the compound.

Venom.

Bane was back in Gotham.


End file.
